There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
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"Who cares what I said to her, babe?" The muffled yells of Mara's neighbor pierce through the thin apartment walls. He must be arguing with his significant other.
Mara struggles to read the words of the novel she's currently editing. "Olivia Bennett, that boy is not the kind of boy you should be getting mixed up with. He's no good!" She's connected to the main character, yet the noise nearby distracts her from connecting with the plot.
"FINE!" A female's voice rings through the hallway with the slam of the door.
"He turned and faced me with a giant smile stretched across his face. I tried to calm myself as he started to walk over to me. There was a little dance in his step as he mouthed the words to the song." The words of the story speak to her. Mara nearly slips into an alternate universe, full of cotton candy and carousels, when suddenly she's pulled from her moment once again.
"You don't even support my music career! Good riddance!" Mara can hear her neighbor yell into the desolate hallway before slamming the door again. Her attention goes back to her project at hand but the loud apartment dweller next to her has other plans. The bass of loud electronica music pounds against their conjoined wall, so loud she can practically feel it in her chest. This was not the type of music she liked to listen to, let alone allow to disrupt her work.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" She grabs her thick hardback copy of "Romeo and Juliet" as a tool to bang against the wall as a warning. "Shut... the... fuck... up!" She yells with a hit between each syllable, perfectly on beat with the song ringing from the apartment next door. The neighbor turns the music louder in an act of defiance. "Fine. You win."
Mara loads up her large, army-green messenger bag. Pens. Manuscripts. Notepad. Leftover lemon bar from the Easter party. Time to explore. It's too late to go to a coffee shop. There must be another spot for her to find silence.
She tiptoes through the hallway, her large combat boots making a louder clunk than she intends. A rusty metal door with signage that says "DANGER. ROOFTOP ACCESS. PERMIT REQUIRED." stands in front of her.
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"Perfect," she whispers to herself, inspecting the door for alarms and additional warnings before heading through. Crisp air hits her face, the tune of "Claire De Lune" playing in her head as she steps onto the open plateau. Sounds of busy New York traffic soothe her. There's a subtle cadence and rhythm to the white noise that bring her to peace.
A couch sits in the center of the concrete floor. Duct tape holds the fabric together and as she inspects the plaid tweed, the crescendo of the piano in her head intensifies. Mismatched, home-sewn pillows and a colorful quilt scatter across the sitting area. She takes in the atmosphere. She breathes in the musty smell of the furniture. She can tell that she's intruding on a place that's sacred to someone else, yet can't help but be drawn in like a moth to a flame.
"What a cliche you are, Mara," she says to herself. The sound of small chickens pull her from her illusion. Why would chickens be on a roof? Must be her own imagination.
She settles into the soft, yet rough, fabric of the sofa and pulls out her manuscript to edit. "Before I knew it he was next me. My heart pounded while I waited for him to make his next move. Just then, he jumped on the nearest picnic table and whistled to the crowd." She places herself back into the story she's editing. It feels so real to her. How badly she wants to dive into the world of young, uncorrupt love. What she would give to live in a world where true love exists and genuine emotions live.
"You're not s'posed to be up here." A familiar deep voice booms from the right side of the rooftop. Mara instinctually drops to the side of the couch. "Mara?"
Never did she think the sound of her name could sound so charming. It's been so long since her heart pounded with such nerves. This was something best avoided. It was in her best interest to stay hidden here, behind the arm of the couch, the quilt over her head.
"I can see you right there, y'know?" Harry's footsteps close in on her location. The beat of her heart coincides with the rhythm of his slip-on checkered Vans. "It's fine. C'mon out."
"I'm sorry..." Her muffled voice says from the underside of the quilt.
"So cute," Harry giggles. Her small smile turns to a stern expression. Not out of being rigid but out of surprise. She hasn't witnessed him put his guard down in such a way. She questions what he said. No one would ever feel that way about her. She's always been the quirky goof. The comic everyone's laughed at. Her reluctance to respond causes Harry to take the first move. "I didn't mean that. I mean I did. God. I'm... I'm sorry, Mara. I'm not mad. Are you mad?"
"What?" She pops her head out of the side of the blanket. Her large brown eyes, innocent and adoring, move him, even through the thick lenses of her dark-rimmed glasses. The tops of her cheekbones are pink. Other girls would pay for such a color. "Why would I be mad? Aren't you mad? I shouldn't be up here. Wait... why are you up here?"
"Gotta feed the babies." Harry holds up a giant bag of leftover food and points to a makeshift chicken coop to the back of the patio where they stand. "Do you want to help?"
Under normal circumstances, Harry wouldn't have asked. Under normal circumstances, Mara would have felt she was tasked with helping, whether she wanted to or not. There were always times where she did things against her better judgment. Harry, however, makes her feel comfortable. She wants to help him. She wants to help him tend to his "babies."
"Here. Take a handful of scraps." Harry aligns his hand with hers. Old breadcrumbs, stale pizza crust and leftover chunks of fruit fill his palm until he places it in hers. "Go on. They're waiting, Mara."
Chickens squawk from the other side of wire cages. She never knew a world like this, something so rustic and pure, could live in the heart of Brooklyn.
"Harry?" She pauses, turning to her landlord's grandson. "What's your story?"
"M- m- my story? No one's ever asked me that before." He fidgets with the bandana wrapped around his head. He cracks his neck loudly. The sound is attractive to her.
"I'm just wondering... I'm so sorry for asking. What's with the chickens?"
"Don't apologize. Why are you apologizing?"
"I feel like I'm intruding on something, I guess. I'm sorry for apologizing."
"Did you just say sorry for saying sorry?" Harry steps closer. Both their timid bodies grow more nervous than before. He can't help but let out a sweet giggle. "My grandpa built this. Gotta take care of it, y'know?"
"I'm sorry for intruding. It seemed quiet. I was just trying to find peace to work." Mara tries to walk away, but a cold grasp envelopes her wrist. Her heart beats in her throat. What's happening? How should she respond? She turns to find Harry, determined and sympathetic.
"This is my quiet space." He states his rule so strictly that she feels stupid for ever stepping on the rooftop in the first place. "But it can be yours too, Mara. You don't have to leave."
"What?" She turns to find his angelic face beaming back at her.
