But she never asked the director about anything and she stayed as my supervisor. Same as before, we discussed patients, argued, and spoke about art and ballet.
In a word, not much had changed on the surface. But a certain secret arose between us, which we, like two co-conspirators, now hid from the entire world.
Once Jenn asked if I could drop her at the atelier during lunch, where she urgently needed to pick up some clothes.
The car as they say was provided, and shortly thereafter we were speeding on the Brooklyn streets to the Bay Ridge neighborhood.
Jenn disappeared at the atelier doors. I pushed back the car seat from the wheel and leaned back, settling in more comfortably to ready myself for her lengthy absence. I took out my cell phone to scroll Facebook.
To my surprise Jenn came out in ten minutes with a package in her hands.
“I promised that I will be quick,” she said, placing the packages on the back seat.
We drove back.
But returning straight to the hospital would have been an unforgivable mistake on my part, if not foolishness, especially when it’s such a warm and sunny February day.
Not saying anything, I drove the car to the river bank of the American Veterans Memorial Pier, located nearby from this atelier.
I loved that place: a wide pier cutting into the Hudson River far from the shore, with space for a promenade and fishing. There is a picturesque view from the piers. There is spaciousness and a wide-open horizon with clouds which lazily crawl, coming in from somewhere blown by the wind. Giant liners pass under the Verrazano Bridge, almost grazing its underbelly—some to dock at the port and others to go from the port to the open ocean.