Too much affection on Newbury
I live near Newbury, an archetypal Boston street where big expensive stores have to fit into the city’s red-and-white retrourban color scheme. I often walk along Newbury to get food, usually Cava, Dig, or whatever food chain with essentially the same bowl.
To bring you back to one of these walks on a warm summer evening, I’m thinking to myself why Chipotle hasn’t driven Jefe’s out of business, being superior in both taste and price. I’m thinking about the view of the Charles at dusk, and how stupidly beautiful it is, as most things that are beautiful are. My glasses are sweating up the ridge of my nose. I’m practically blind without them.
But the main attraction of this walk is the abundance of couples. Couples holding hands, Couples linked arm in arm. Walking in front of me, a lady in a denim jacket rests her head on a dude a clean head taller than her in a pastel long-sleeve shirt, gotta be Vineyard Vines.
Onward to my food-stop, I’m stopped in my tracks by a more intense spectacle of affection. A girl (who I’m confident is younger than the previous lady), is standing on an electric scooter, stationary and propped up by its kickstand. My view directs itself to her big blue hoodie with “BOSTON” in white letters and a prototypical white skirt. She’s alone.
Following her head to her lips, my view pans to another pair of lips belonging to a dude standing on the ground in front of the scooter’s handlebars. Coming into view are his black bucket hat, baggy black pants with abundant pockets and black shoes of—I take off my glasses.