I close my eyes in Fort Greene park, flanked by the far-away whisper of a Tuesday night block party, tree shadows, and a resting bicycle. Summer life moves slowly past while I float outside of myself, inviting the weight of the day to sink out of me and the tension behind my eyes to release. I try not to think about anything, searching for silence in my mind, but the image of a man and his pistachio-colored eyes, and the memory of his fingers pressed softly over mine keep creeping into my thoughts. It's not the first time he's walked in on my meditation—when I surrender to moments of pure relaxation and comfort. The park is a good place to feel this ease: a neighborhood place, a tranquil place, a lets-not-leave-quite-yet type of place, a place to forget about your day job or your anger. The park is that distinctive place that smells of a friendly BBQ in the early evenings, where joggers move up hills and across cobblestone, where my sister reads her book on Saturday afternoons. It's where I ride when the sweetness of the late summer night speaks to me and tells me to sit and be still.