By Robert A. Cozzi
The summer of 1983 felt like a threshold, and I was finally crossing it. My first real New York party was hosted by Dolan, a college friend whose summer internship had earned him a narrow Sixth Avenue walk-up. It was one of those buildings that held the permanent scent of stale cigarettes and aged varnish, where the windows shivered in their frames every time a bus roared past below. Like someone stepping into a film they’d only ever watched from the back row, I carried a frantic, nervous energy on the train into the city.
Back then, the city was a different beast. It was louder, more feral, and pulsing with a raw sort of life. It was a symphony of car horns and radio static drifting from open windows, punctuated by the subterranean scream of subway brakes beneath the pavement. Even the thick summer air felt electric, vibrating with the restless motion of a city that never quite caught its breath.
By the time I climbed the narrow stairs to Dolan’s apartment, the party had already reached that dense New York pitch where every room feels too small for the amount of life inside it. Talking Heads blasted from cheap windowsill speakers, nearly drowned out by the roar of the kitchen. Amidst the clinking bottles and the predictable slamming of the refrigerator door, I stood knowing only one person there: Dolan.
But it was his roommate, Anthony, who changed the tempo. Sometimes that happens: a stranger walks in and the room’s gravity tilts, pulling everyone, everything, toward them. He caught me staring. Even when Anthony stood still, his dark, curly hair seemed to have a life of its own, and his warm, olive skin gave him away instantly. “Full-blooded Italian,” he exclaimed, that infectious grin breaking through as he tapped his chest. “Every single grandparent.”
I laughed. “I’m only half,” I told him.
“Half still counts,” he said.
It was his eyes that held me. Large, dark brown, but harboring hidden mossy green flecks when the light caught them just right. They were intense, expressive eyes, the kind that hold a thought longer than most people dare to. More than once that night, I caught myself watching him, and he noticed. But it wasn’t confrontational; just a small smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he understood the moment between us without needing to define it.
Sitting there next to Anthony, I found myself closing the distance as we spoke. It was a subtle boldness I would have never possessed before losing weight during my first year of college. I caught him tracking the light on my hair; the sun and salt of the ocean had bleached my usual light brown into something leaning closer to blond. I had hoped he noticed the contrast, and that the vibrant peach-colored shirt I had chosen matched both my deep summer tan and the electric current of the night. In a light blue muscle shirt and worn denim, Anthony was pure, effortless style. For the final touch, he wore a small black top hat tipped slightly to one side like he’d just stepped out of some downtown theater production.
The apartment was too loud to talk. Voices ricocheted off the walls and music thumped through the floorboards. Anthony leaned in, his voice barely audible against the din. “Want to get out of here for a minute?”
I nodded immediately.
The door swung open and, abruptly, the chaos vanished. We stepped into a different world: a stark, quiet pocket of air belonging only to the building. The single yellow bulb buzzed overhead, highlighting scuffed, worn walls and the soft tick of radiator pipes. We took a seat on the top step, the roaring party behind us merely a distant murmur. And just like that, we’d carved out a small island for ourselves.
Anthony stretched his arms across his knees and looked at me. “So, what brings you into Manhattan tonight?” His voice carried that easy confidence of someone already living inside the life he wanted. He told me about himself in one breath: Massachusetts, Boston University for performing arts, graduation, and a straight shot to New York to act. “Auditions by day, restaurant work at night,” he laid it out. “Repeat forever.”
“Forever?” I asked.
“Until the big break.” There was discipline behind his smile. Determination. “You’ve got to feed the dream every day,” he said. “Even when you’re tired.”
I listened like a man receiving instructions for a future he hadn’t quite figured out yet. When he asked about my life, I surprised myself by answering honestly. “I want to do something meaningful,” I told him. “Make my parents proud. Make myself proud.” I shrugged. “I just don’t know what that looks like yet.”
Anthony had a way of truly listening, anchoring his attention on me while most people’s thoughts wandered. When excitement hit, his hand would move toward mine, creating an immediate shift in the air between us. Then our fingers locked in a slow, rhythmic motion that felt like emphasis in a sentence. The first time it happened, the city seemed to drop its volume. I froze at the intimate sensation of skin on skin, surprised by how soft his palms were. Despite the thick summer heat, his skin was warm and perfectly dry, matching my own hands, which usually only grew damp when I played tennis. The sharp, echoey slap of our palms meeting bounced off the stairwell walls. The second time, it felt natural. By the third time it felt like we’d been doing it for years. It was more than a touch. It was an exclamation point, each deliberate clasp delivering the same heartbeat of a message: Yes. Stay. Stay in the moment.
Somewhere during the conversation, Anthony casually eased the small top hat from his head. “Here,” he said casually. Before I could object, he gently perched it on my head. “There,” he said with a laugh, surveying his work. “Now you look like you belong downtown.”
I laughed too, but inside I felt the strange intimacy of the gesture. Sharing a hat with someone you just met sounds trivial but, in that stairwell, it felt like trust. Without trying, we were closing the gap, drawn together by connection rather than flirtation. Knees touching, shoulders bumping, our clasped hands setting a cadence for a moment that seemed to exist outside of time.
My hand came to rest on the banister, the old wood polished smooth by decades of hands, carved with dozens of initials. Some even declaring love out loud. Anthony followed my gaze. “Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s the building guest book.” He slipped a small penknife from his pocket, offering it to me. “Go ahead.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?” he shrugged. “Leave proof you were here.”
I knelt, pressing the blade into the grain. It took patience, slow and careful movements, to make my mark.
R.C.
I watched my initials take shape in the wood, pale against the dark surface. Behind me, Anthony’s presence was a warm weight, his breath near my shoulder. I finished, dusting off the shavings with my thumb. Another mark added to the crowd, a silent confession that I existed here once.
Stepping outside a while later, we found Sixth Avenue still pulsing with late summer energy. Taxis streaked past us, neon signs buzzing overhead, while a car stereo blasted Madonna’s “Lucky Star” from an open window somewhere nearby.
We moved into a pocket of shadow left by a broken streetlamp. I couldn’t see Anthony’s mouth clearly, but the warmth radiating from him told me he was smiling. We lingered there longer than expected, standing in the sheltered dark before he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. It wasn’t the casual, quick slap-on-the-back hug most guys give each other. This one was different. He drew me in, our chests colliding slowly, and for a heartbeat, nothing else existed. His arms held me, letting the rush of Manhattan, including the traffic, the distant party, and the noise, dissolve into a distant backdrop. In that warm, unrushed gravity, it felt less like a hug and more like a first kiss. It was a moment where two strangers met and somehow recognized something in each other.
When we finally separated, the stillness between us remained. Neither of us moved to break it. I looked at him and whispered, “You’re honestly the nicest person I’ve met all summer.”
Anthony laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nice. I’ll take it.”
He placed his soft palm against my shoulder, guiding me backward a few steps until the harsh, yellow glow of a working streetlight spilled over us. The darkness dropped away, exposing us completely under the glass bulb. In the sudden clarity of the light, I caught the familiar crinkle beside his eyes that told me he was still smiling. Then his expression shifted, turning serious as he raised his hand and pressed his index finger gently against the center of my chest.
“You’ve got something in there,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “A spark. You might not see it yet, but I can tell. Lean into it. Let it guide you. That’s how you find your way.”
I believed him completely.
We said our real goodbye in the silence that followed.
Walking toward the subway, I felt the air and the night change me. The train back to New Jersey rattled through the darkness, all flickering fluorescent light and slumbering commuters. I closed my eyes, watching the night play back in slow motion. I remembered the lock of Anthony’s eyes, the unexpected softness of his dry palms against mine, the buzzing stairwell light, and the harsh scrape of the knife carving my initials into the bannister. Suspended in the clattering silence between Manhattan and home, I kept my eyes closed to memorize every frame. I already felt the shift in the dark.
We never saw each other again.
~~~
Robert A. Cozzi is a New Jersey native whose creative writing is rooted in a lifelong daily journaling practice that explores memory, connection, and the enduring nature of love and friendship. His work has appeared in publications such as West Trade Review, Ink, Sweat & Tears, JMWW, and Bending Genres. A recipient of extensive university-backed publication honors, Cozzi’s writing is also featured in the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay’s Sheepshead Review, Cal State Fullerton’s Dash Literary Journal, and Arizona State University’s Canyon Voices. His debut novel, Fate Has Handed Me a Wildcard, is scheduled for release by 21 Chieftans Press in late 2026.