At least in certain parks, because I know we have met in others. So let's say Central Park, for its remoteness to us now, thawed by spring and not yet wilted by summer. On that hill, you know — that looks over the diamonds. The diamonds are empty. It's Thursday. But these great trees above thrum in the breeze. The wind is releasing a star field of fat golden pollen, streaming over me, whooshing past me, into which I am flying as if the pilot of an X-Wing, though I am lying on my back in the grass.
You drift past like a planet, but like a planet with hay fever. I say Gesundheit, you say thank you and grimace, and that's it, we're through.
This is a way we've never met. It joins other ways, like ancestrally, by star fields, and in the gutter, by picnic spots.