By Samia Menon
The moment was still – and I was in a wrinkle of Rockefeller Plaza and Kate had blinked away as the sun does on beautiful days (in beautiful ways) and I had noticed that the concrete was blue. So I was alone on the blue concrete and threads of people were tugging through – tying knots around the rink and tangling the tree and I dreamed of a Rockette as I saw them when I was three: an impossibly tall statue come to life (marble as skin, red, red lips) and wondered, as this delicately curved dancer approached me, through the crowd, looming above, cold and lovely… Would she trip? The web was growing thicker, and imagine what that blue concrete would do to her, right before her show – right before her Christmas Spectacular. The bruises wouldn’t do, the bruises would be blue; carefully, I stepped down the stairs and weaved to the Lego Store, and through the glass I saw her, smiling, under a broken Tadj Mahal