There is something completely romantic* about the city at night when I get off work at this time of the year. I step out of my building on to the street and the sky is that perfect shade of midnight blue where it still has a bit of glow in it that only lasts for fifteen minutes or so before it turns black. The tall buildings around me with their lights shining in the darkness, cars zipping down the one-way streets, the air filled with noise that’s not really noise but… background. It’s cold enough that nothing smells anymore (which is a good thing). I take a deep breath and it’s a shock to my nose, my throat, my lungs. I hustle to find the gloves I swear I left in my purse (and hopefully not in the bottom drawer of my desk). I look for the walk signs (because getting run over by a bus is not my idea of fun) and briskly stroll to my bus stop, hoping I didn’t just miss the one I wanted. And by the time I get home, the sky is dark, the lights of the city are far enough away to twinkle but not entrance, and the magic is gone.
(And then I open the door to my house and comes galloping out from the living room at full speed. He’s better than a dog at greeting, I swear. Especially because he doesn’t sniff inappropriately.)
I’d like to say I want that feeling bottled, so I could open it any time and get the sensation of getting off work and walking out into the world, but then it would cease to be special. Pretty soon it’ll be getting dark at 4:30 and when I step outside it’ll already be fully black.
*I’m not talking about that definition of romance that involves love, but the one that means, “A mysterious or fascinating quality or appeal, as of something adventurous, heroic, or strangely beautiful.”