When days are short and dark and cold, and the city is shitty and busy and bitching about the weather, my mind wanders to you. Not in a weird way, New York rooftop. I don’t want to creep you out. It’s just... I think about us, y'know?
I think about the beach towels and the sunscreen. I fantasize about drinking too much, and caring too little. I daydream about building the cheap lawn furniture I’ve schlepped to you from the closest hardware store, if only to have something to recline on while someone else runs for more ice. No matter how icy the sidewalks and snowy the streets, the mere memory makes me smile.
So here’s to you, New York rooftop. You are excellent, ebullient, and radiant. You are a gem, a pearl, a diamond above the rough. I will shovel NYC’s interminable shit all year just for the chance to worship at your open-aired altar, and there are 8.5 million others who probably feel the same way. It’s just not a summer party if you’re not involved.