9pm-10pm
New Yorkers knew that hope had truly died when the trains shut down, almost a month ago. Why work when the world was ending? Subway tunnels had become gathering places - a shelter for the homeless, a hideaway for those on the run, a refuge for travelers seeking that oft-touted but never realized 'safe zone.' Santana had even been to a progressive subway car party a few weeks ago. Each car boasted a new drink, a new beat, a new theme, and new people. It became one of those "both eyes forward" nights and ended in an undergrad's dorm room at NYU with her head between a girl's thighs. Alexandra, her name was. Or maybe Alisha.
Without the trains, living in New York had taken on a new façade for Santana. She and Quinn had moved into the top floor of a brownstone on W. 114th when she started graduate school about four years prior. For a grad student and (at the moment) a program assistant at a non-profit, it was the best they could do in Manhattan. It was tiny. Seven hundred square feet meant that Quinn could tell when Santana's breathing had evened out at night. Seven hundred square feet meant that Santana could wake up early, but only if she tiptoed. Seven hundred square feet meant that they were family.
The rooftop deck was what made it home. Well, it wasn't exactly a rooftop deck in official terms. Santana had discovered it after they moved in. A fire escape sat just outside of her window, clanking against the building whenever the wind whipped. She'd opened the window for inspiration one morning, but found more inspiration in climbing to the top of the escape ladder and onto the flat rooftop. The sun pulled itself above the rooftops of Manhattan's skyline, inching up to reflect off of glass skyscrapers to the south and the Hudson River to the west. From that point forward, a week didn't pass without a climb to the deck, even when her nose was red at the first blast of wintry air in the coldest winters and the tar stuck to her Chucks in the hottest summers.
(It had been quite the adventure pulling lawn chairs and a small charcoal grill up that fire escape a few weeks after its discovery. Santana's hands still sweat when she thinks about the flecks of terror in Quinn's hazel eyes when Quinn's foot slipped off the railing and the grill top rattled seven flights to the ground.)
Walking the streets of Manhattan had always been one of Santana's favorite past-times. Her first city jaunt had come at the expense of the Lima County School Board, during a Glee Club field trip for the National competition. She'd ventured to Tribeca, a place she'd only read about, to find that, though it hadn't lived up to its storied reputation as a lesbian mecca, it was a mosaic of cultures, architecture, and life. In her college years, she'd visited Quinn more times than she could count. Quinn had lived in lower Manhattan and during her work hours, Santana found herself walking as many as 50 blocks in exploration. She'd return to Quinn's ragged basement studio in Chinatown with sore feet and an urge to explore some of the seedier sides of Manhattan. Since the trains had closed down a month ago, the streets had bubbled over with a new edge.
They hadn't walked more than two blocks before she felt the sweat run down her back. Though set just an hour earlier, the sun's presence endured as heat steamed from the black asphalt streets. Headed east, she and Quinn abutted the rear of Butler Library. Their destination was about thirty blocks south, on the Upper West Side. The Upper West Side didn't boast many warehouses, but they'd found an eccentric hangout along Riverside Drive that brought a mix eclectic enough for both Santana and Quinn to be satisfied.
She wished they had time to walk around toward the front of the library. In its prime, Butler shined with gold light in the nighttime. Its columns supported the names of scholars held in high esteem by the learned, Santana among them. (Though with her background in the Studies of Women and Gender, she clamored for female and minority voices to be added to the mix.) She'd thought about accepting admission at other schools. Harvard seemed to want to add a Latina to its role, so that was out. She'd never been "the Latina" before, and she refused to let it define her in adulthood. The University of Oregon's weather meshed perfectly with her persona, but proved too far from Quinn. Butler Library, with its halo of light and endless words, became her reason for New York City, for Columbia. She silently promised herself that she'd walk back past it on her way home.
"I think you should call her." Santana felt the sole of her shoe catch the curb as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Her gait faltered.
"Who now?" A cigarette dangled between Quinn's lips as she struggled with her lighter.
"Quinn…" Santana stopped in the street and reached out for Quinn's shoulder to hold her back. Quinn spun around, her eyes already on the verge of tears. "Don't you think tonight's the night to set things right?" Her mind flashed to Lima, Ohio: her father's gentle voice a static whisper through the telephone, the smell of grass freshly cut, her mother's crucifix delicately resting against tanned skin.
"Are you really talking to me about 'setting things right?'" The flame struggled against the wind as Quinn inhaled sharply. "Things will never be right with her and it's too late anyway." Short bursts of smoke clouded her head with each word.
Santana licked her lips and slowly opened her eyes to stare at the ground. "Fine," she whispered. "I'm just saying. I know you think about it. I want you to feel..." her mind tripped over the words, "I don't know. I want you to feel…"
"I can't think about that tonight." Quinn bit back. It had to have been the only thing on her mind.
Hazel eyes flicked to her own. Santana held Quinn's stare for a moment before looking to the street. The streets were more littered in New York's waning days. Advertisements for basement raves and repentance notices for sinners lined the gutters now alongside the gum wrappers and trampled plastic bags.
Riverside Drive was upon them, the warehouse just a block away. They'd walked along the park for the last few blocks. A blaze from a trashcan caught Santana's eye. Looters. Quinn moved forward, her mind on the alcohol and hook-ups waiting at the club.
Santana swung her hand out to catch Quinn's, pulling her in the opposite direction. "I want to see the water."
"Seriously, Santana?" Quinn pulled back angrily, her mind still on the conversation Santana brought up earlier.
Santana held fast. "Please. We're going to your bar. I'm going to look out for you while you get drunk. Please do this for me."
Quinn pulled her hand back and rubbed at the knuckles Santana had squeezed just a little too hard. "I never asked you to look after me."
"Quinn, please," a desperation Quinn rarely heard inched its way into Santana's voice. "I don't want to argue. I just want this."
Quinn closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. "Fine."
The Hudson smelled like finality. It was a deep, rich, earthy smell, unlike anything Santana had smelled from the river before. A few yellowing lights dimly illuminated the waves.
It had taken five minutes to walk across the park and to the river. They hadn't talked the entire time. Santana hadn't even looked over at Quinn, too afraid she'd fuel her ire.
She tempted fate as she leaned against the railed: "I'm sorry, Q." She turned to look at Quinn, whose cigarette was fighting against the damp wind to stay lit.
"You're just looking out, I know." Her eyes nearly crossed as she focused in on the tip of the lighter. "Are you gonna call?"
"Call who?" Santana searched for something interesting in the gutters. Occasionally, she'd find a photograph from the pre-digital era or a tattered page from a book. Those found items stopped her still. Even with the world ending, people continued to disrespect the history she'd spent her young adult life studying.
"You know." Quinn's voice was steady.
Santana caught her eye again and went cold. "It's different and you know it. Don't do that, Quinn."
Seven hundred square feet meant that Quinn knew just the right things to say without pushing Santana over the edge.