On an early evening in May of 1963, a young man with his hand in his pocket walked briskly up New York’s Third Avenue. The air was soft and beautiful, the sky was darkening by slow degrees from blue to the calm and lovely violet of dusk. There are people who love the city, and this was one of the nights that made them love it. Everyone standing in the doorways of the delicatessens and dry-cleaning shops and restaurants seemed to be smiling. An old lady pushing two bags of groceries in an old baby pram grinned at the young man and hailed him: “Hey, beautiful!” The young man gave her a half-smile and raised his hand in a wave.
I can’t imagine what I am seeing, an awful feeling flies through my whole body and some kind of dark demon constantly takes my mind to a completely wrong place, where everything isn’t idyllic or romantic at all.
The only thing I was searching for at that time, was to feel the love he was able to give all the generous women around him, who adored his irresistible look, and not at least how they enjoyed the feeling he could give them. The feeling of flying away to something even more incredible, when he walked by staring at them, with the most appealing blue eyes that could tear anyone. We felt in love, but then everything took a incomprehensible turn.
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