2 June 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 2

Ice Cream

by SARAH MONTAGUE

He posed and I photographed him in our hallway on Mercer Street, so pleased by the fact that we had one. The microwave was shiny and white and built in under the counter, suspended, with bright blue numbers that kept time.

We never had radiators before and had to figure out how to turn them on and off. I wore his oversized army jackets and five-dollar hats from unbelievably convenient street vendors. We listened to children's voices from the rooftop playground outside of the bedroom window. The noise never bothered us. It made us feel clean.

I craved west coast beaches and driving over the Golden Gate, and in the beginning, when I first arrived, I would still find sand in my shoes. I missed grocery stores with wide endless aisles and full size shopping carts. I longed for gas stations and sunshine and Bob who drank coffee and always ordered a milkshake and the bartenders who taught me how to play Spades.

He bought me a warm coat for winter and sang to me on our kitchen floor before we had furniture. We ate noodles and New York bagels that didn't impress me as much different than the bagels I ate in California. He was not rich yet, he was not popular, and days came when I bought sandwiches with the only money we had left.

He picked me up in Soho whenever I got lost. He tried to save me in the m