“I love this time of day,” Logan says, apropos of nothing. “Photographers call it the golden hour.”
“It is beautiful,” I say, my heart full of joy at the simple luxury of this moment.
He gestures at the sunlight streaming at us from between the buildings to our left as we cross an intersection. “You know, the Japanese have a word.Komorebi.It means the way sunlight filters through the trees in a forest. I’ve always thought there should be a similar word, something that captures this time of day, in this place. The way the sun is such a perfect gold that you can almost but not quite look directly at it, the way it’s framedby the buildings, shines off the glass, turns everything beautiful.” He looks at me. “So beautiful.”
Is he referring to me? Or to the sunlight, the moment?
We walk on, and I memorize this. His hand in mine, his fingers tangled between my fingers, his thumb rubbing in small circles on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. The beauty of the city, the air warm and lush and smelling of fresh rain, the familiar cacophony of New York, freedom, the man beside me.
“There’s another word,” he says, once again breaking the silence. “This one is Sanskrit.Mudita”—he says itmoo-dee-tah—“and it means... how do I put it? To take joy in the happiness of someone else. Vicarious happiness.”
I watch him, and wait for him to elaborate.
He glances at me, a smile lighting up his beautiful face. “I’m experiencingmuditaright now, watching you.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “Oh yeah. You’re looking at everything like it’s just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”
I wish I could explain it to him. “Everythingisbeautiful, Logan.”
“And I just... I love that innocence, I guess. I tend to be jaded, a lot of the time. I’ve seen a lot, you know? A lot of nasty shit, and it’s easy to forget the beautiful.” He pauses. “I like odd words, because they capture things in ways English doesn’t. They capture the beauty of little moments. Words likekomorebiremind me to put aside my general disillusionment and just enjoy the now.”
“What kinds of things have you seen, Logan?” I ask, although I’m not sure why, or if the answer will be something I can stomach.
He doesn’t answer, just directs me with a nudge to my elbow through a low doorway into a dark restaurant, accordion music playing, garlic scent strong in the air.
He waves at an old man wiping down a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “Got a table out back for me, Gino?”
“Yeah, yeah, course I do. Go on, go on. Sit, I’ll bring wine and bread for you and your pretty friend.” Gino smiles and hustles off into the kitchen, hunched over but moving faster than I’d have thought possible.
Logan leads me through a back door and into a tiny open-air courtyard. I could probably touch both walls if I lay down, but there are four tables crowded into the space, three of them occupied by other couples. White lights on a string are draped around the perimeter of the wall over our heads, hanging on nails driven into old crumbling brick.
We’ve barely had time to sit, Logan with his back facing the wall, when Gino returns, a wicker basket full of garlic bread in one hand, a bottle of wine and two goblets in the other. He sets the basket of bread between us and then pours the wine, a dark ruby liquid.
“This is a good Malbec,” Gino says. “From Argentina, ’cause no good Malbec ever came from anywhere else. It’s good, very good. You like it, I think.”
“Is there wine I don’t like, Gino? Answer me that.”
“Shitty wine, that’s what,” Gino says, setting a glass in front of me. He and Logan both laugh, but if there’s a joke, I’ve missed it.
Both men stare at me, expectant. Apparently I’m supposed to try it first? Another new experience. Tentatively, remembering the last time I tried red wine, I take a sip.
This is different. Smoother, not biting at my taste buds quite as hard. Flavorful, but not overpowering. I nod. “I like it. But I’m not a wine expert.”
“Who’s a wine expert? Not me,” Gino says, “certainly not this joker. No sommeliers here,mia bella, just good wine and good food.”
“Mia bella?” I ask.
“It just means ‘my beautiful,’” Logan answers.
“Hey, who’s Italian around here, buddy? Not you, that’s for damn sure. You wouldn’t knowbellafrombolla. Leave the language of love to me, heh?”
“I thought French was the language of love?” Logan laughs.
“Nah, nah. Italiano.Italiano é molto più bella.” Gino waves a hand. “Bah. French. Sounds like a duck blowing its nose. But to speak Italiano is to sing, my friend. Now. What you have to eat?”
“Surprise us, Gino. But be warned, we’re both very hungry.”
