“Why do you seek to kill gods?”
“I talked with my sister, up in Albany. She said she’d love to see us. She invited us up for the long weekend, we can be up there by tomorrow morning.” Paula smiled up at Ryan as he pushed her wheelchair down the ramp. It was late Thursday. The sun was just setting. Paula had a clean bill of health. They were going to get out of this goddamn city. “I can’t believe we’re getting out of the city. This is going to be so much fun! I can show you the swimming hole I used to visit when I was a kid.”
David Crenshaw stood at the top of the suspension bridge, staring down at the water. It was a very long way away. He was not yet a doctor, and would not be for another fifteen years. He did not have the distinguished silver hair and fine, vulpine bone structure that would make him both charming and well-trusted. He did not have the boundless inner confidence that would buoy him through his everyday life. What he had at the moment were a million regrets, the memories of lingering laughter mocking and fluting as it crashed back and forth in his head. Cars rushed past as he stood at the edge, a simple fence between him and the end.
Mickey’s day had started out half-decently. He didn’t have school today, though it was a Wednesday. It was still the summer, which meant he didn’t have to deal with school for at least a little bit longer. August was disgustingly hot, but it was better than sitting in class, being mocked, failing exams, making his parents angry. Summer school had ended a few days ago, and he had only a few precious days. So, he and his family were going to Madison Square Garden. His father had brought up the idea, and Mickey had gone along with it. They’d gotten into a cab, which was a rare treat. Usually they had to pile onto the subway.
Ryan Harovitch, Chartered Accountant, felt on top of the world as he returned home early. His apartment was in one of the nicest buildings in Stuyvesant Town, a comfortably expansive two bedroom where his girlfriend designed things to sell on Etsy, and his wire-haired terrier pissed on the carpets. He didn’t mind that. It was annoying, but the dog was always happy to see him when he got home, which could make up for an awful lot of urine. He’d triumphantly finished the quarterly tax returns for his best client in the office today, and had shaved another percentage point off of their onerous tax burden. He was going to have a glass of wine, engage in some petting both heavy and light, and enjoy a Sunday off.