A Rose Under the Bull

The streets are bustling with people dressed smartly in navy, khaki, and black suits, with touches of patterned neckties, red lipstick, and sparkling jewelry or wristwatches. There are those who adorn Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags and some trying to make a name for themselves in creative mixtures of vintage clothing and modern hairstyles. The smell of sweet roasted almonds and sizzling gyros are as consistent as the sounds of honking yellow taxis, yet the streets never had the stale sameness that came from the slower living I found in the suburbs of my southern hometown.

During lunch, with my iPod in tow listening faithfully to Brittany Spears, after a long walk, I perched myself near the Charging Bull, the symbol of Wall St. I am just midway through my internship with Morgan Stanley, and my floor is always busy with people, even during lunch. With a much-needed reprieve, I felt the need for fresh air and a snack. I knew my accounting internship would be hard, but the constant sense of failure, as anyone working with numbers that did not belong to them and could be the difference between a billion- or million-dollar mistake, would be haunted by.

I sat staring at the raging beast - tourist battled to pose for a photo in front of it - and thought that it was not just the bullpen, the name for the floor of the stock market fighting for the best, but all of Manhattan that battled for the winds of freedom that allowed you to put up with that shitty manager or the expensive housing. At this moment I realized my iPod was dead and I was staring at the bull with tears burning the edges of my eyes in frustration.

Next to me sat down a young man, not much older, with a tattoo on his leg of a yellow rose. He leaned forward onto his knees and did not look at me but faced the Bull.

“You know, the Bull was made by an Italian artist in reflection of the Wall Street Crash of 1929.” As he spoke, he turned to face me, scarlet hair catching the light. His voice was husky with a southern drawl, his skin tan with freckles on his cheeks, and wore a tired but bashful grin.

“Yeah? It seems most of New York is celebrated by those, not from New York.” I tried casually, but the nervousness that comes from talking to strangers had my voice waver. He was not just a stranger, but a beautiful one who sees the vulnerability in my eyes brimming with emotion, which I quickly hide by looking away.

“I was told that what makes New York so great wasn’t just what you could achieve here, but the people that filled it from all the different countries and cultures.” He said, his smile did not waver nor did he look away.

“I am Chris. I work over at the Bean and Bean, while going to NYU.” He pointed in the direction of his coffee shop then reached his hand out for a handshake. I knew the name and location already, as I visited it every Friday, but I thought I would remember that scarlet hair.

“I am Isabella, I work over at the Twin Towers, I haven’t seen you at the Bean and Bean before,” I replied and took his hand for the handshake and felt how warm and rough it was. I looked back in memories of him and thought that it was Monday, maybe he had started on a weekend?

“I usually do not work the morning shift, but my classes are in the evening this semester, so here I am.” He shrugged and stood up.

“It was nice to meet you, Isabella, this is my break time. So, tomorrow, I could bring you a coffee?” He asked shyly, rubbing the back of his neck, and offering an easy smile. Smiling back, I stood up to join him.

“Yeah, I would like that.” My cheeks cramped from the smile and as he walked away I too made my way back to my office with a lighter step.

The next day, I arrived early at the office at 7:20 am, ready for the bustle that was going to sweep the office at 7:50 am - my normal arrival time. Once the office filled up with coworkers, our team meeting began. By 8:40 am I was overwhelmed with restless energy for my late lunch with Chris. I began thinking of all the questions to ask him, such as why he had a yellow rose on his leg or what he was studying. A loud resonation of an impact rippled through the walls, the air, and the floor. I realized something was wrong. Very wrong. I ran to the massive window of the office room, seeing the North Tower was hit by a plane.

By 8:55 am they told us to stay put. Fear rippled through the room, some stood up and just stared at the window, some called their family, some tried to run, others screamed - I sat down and tried not to cry.

It felt like moments. I and the other members of the team looked out the window, the plane was a bit too high for our floor, but it was still barreling in our direction. The unfairness, I thought. I was supposed to finish school, make up with my sister over that stupid fight last week, and I had wasted the past two weeks by eating salads instead of getting bagels. I fumbled for my phone, I should call Mom and Dad. When was the last time I spoke to them? This morning? I was supposed to be at the Bull, with a charming boy and uncomfortable exchange of words that led to more time together.

I looked around at the others, clenching the phone to my heart-pounding chest, and met the terror-filled faces, the last people I would see. Then the sadness hit that I did not get his number to tell him I wouldn’t make it. The floor above collapsed down on us.