The Gravity of Us

by Phil Stamper

New York has a way of making you feel at home, no matter where you’re at. You just have to step off the street, and some neighborhood will claim you as one of their own.

“If you want to kiss me, kiss me because you like me. Not because you think it’ll make me happy.” “But I—” “You can’t just kiss away all the bad feelings I have. You can’t kiss me and make me better. I think you know that, but … I have to say it.”

I want him to know the improbability of two people meeting like this. That it’s astounding, no matter how inconsequential it is. Sure, strangers meet all the time. It’s the universe’s way to say we don’t matter. None of this matters.

There’s something gratifying about kissing someone goodbye. Just having someone to kiss goodbye is special, and I hope I never take him for granted.

Nostalgia is a blindfold.

“Don’t aim to fix people. Fixing seems so permanent, so absolute. Like there’s no room for error. Aim to make things better.

People aren’t broken, and therapists couldn’t fix them if they were. But maybe someone can make things a little better, or help them be a little happier.