I live under a rock, but I have a camera. The night after the blood moon, I glanced over my shoulder and saw something huge and orange rising directly behind the Empire State Building like a mad, glowing pumpkin. I gasped, dropping the letter in my hand. In seconds, I swiped up my camera bag and tripod with the speed and precision of a trained military professional. I ran up the cliff to the park, where Jersey City dreamers descend like homing pigeons on the pavilion on crisp, clear nights when Manhattan glimmers like a carnival over the Hudson. The pavilion is condemned, a casualty of Hurricane Sandy. This deters no one.
Only minutes had passed since I caught the first golden sliver, but the moon moves quickly at the horizon. I pulled out my camera and started clicking clumsily through camera settings, oblivious to the other homing pigeons. I’m a horrible photographer with a mediocre camera, and I didn’t have time for social graces. The moon was escaping me, farther and farther with each passing second.
“Do you want to use my lens?,” a voice said from behind me in the shadows. I heard myself say, “Yes.”