I left the book on a bench, quickly snapped a photo to document the drop, and escaped the park, crossed the cobblestone street to head back to the office. Unbeknownst to me, he had followed, all that way, called after me, held the book out with concern.
"You left this," he said breathlessly.
"Oh. No. I meant to," I stumbled for words. "It's this thing. Rock the drop. You leave a book for someone."
He stared blankly.
"You can keep it, if you want it."
"But it's yours. You forgot it."
"No. Well. Yes. But I meant to. Do you want it?"
"You forgot it," he insisted.
Before I knew it, the book was back in my hands and he was gone. I stood on the street corner, having never loved New York City (its kindness, its strangeness) more.
I crossed back over the cobblestones, passed the band, found my bench and placed the book there. Again.
