Summers in New York City were languorous, hot, heavy; they were warm humidity or breath on glass, tasting of stale coffee, or maybe tasting of some promise that today would not exactly the same as yesterday. Summer felt of sticky skin and long sighs, promises whispered and broken without second thought, the pulse of the city beating slow and loud under the skins of its people. Summer was eternal, long and low. It lay as a heavy blanket on the people, muffling their clacking shoes, the crunching of tires on road, the shouts of street vendors desperate for a sale, the sharp, angular voices in conversation over the phone. The city was swinging, but it was swinging softly, gently, tenuously, like a child on playset for the first time. It was summer, and nothing was usual.
Kyungsoo felt the summer damp against his skin, pressing him down, his tones languid, each feeling not like a note, but like a sigh, lacking the luster and desperation of his usual song. He attracted less looks than ever, seemingly melting into the summer city, disguised in the heat waves, nestled comfortably into the blanket of sounds surrounding him. He sat, palms up in his lap, eyes half closed, swaying to the song of his own making, lips moving slowly and softly, his black hair wet with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest.
He felt a tug on his half-closed hand, and his eyes trailed slowly, lazily up the figure of the stranger silhouetted in the backdrop of the cityscape. The stranger was dramatically incongruous to his surroundings, unsoftened by the heat, all sharp angles and smoldering eyes. His chin jutted and bobbed as he nodded at Kyungsoo, his eyes cutting through the thick air between them. Kyungsoo's mouth drifted closed, and his eyes drifted open. The stranger was all that was in focus; everything else blurred around the edges,fuzzy and inconsistent. The stranger's skin felt cool and smooth against Kyungsoo's limp hand, and maybe not quite human. He reached into a pocket, his movements fluid but controlled, and pulled Kyungsoo's hand further forward, and Kyungsoo could feel the supple lightness of the movement, his palm instinctively springing open. A cool, crisp bill was placed into the hand, and the stranger, with a flash of teeth in what seemed like a grimace more than a smile, released the hand, his fingertips grazing it lightly. He sauntered off, not in the drooping slack way of those surrounding him; he appeared brittle, fragile, his limbs slim, his shoulders narrow, but thrown back, his scrawny chest open to the sky, and his step light. Kyungsoo watched, his eyes wide and startled, until the man disappeared behind a pack of tourists. Only then did he notice that he was still clutching the bill, damp now with the humidity of his palm. He inspected it with wonder; in the corner, outlined in black ink, was a small, precise 500.
