We rode the train back, at each stop I told her what was there to go back to and see once she got adjusted. I was not used to seeing her nervous, once or twice I saw her silently moving her lips, gauging the time in between each stop and telling herself what stop it would have been at home. Here the deli she so liked, four minutes and two stops from there the record shop where the boy behind the counter was sweet on her and who always gave her a discount.
Walking down the end of the long street which lead to mine, she saw all the bookstalls and record stores. From one of the open doors ways which was shrugging off its coat of blue paint in flakes in time to the music came snatches of Bird and then Bud Powell. Hearing this, she felt better. Good enough to stop for drinks, humming as she stood in the street to pick a place out.