Raise the high roof beam, carpenters and season

The sun hit high noon and the rooftops called our name. After a photo stroll through the market and a birthday dinner, we begin the weekend concert series on top a shop in Chinatown.

Out the apartment window girls in flowery summer dresses stand by boys in band tees and skinny jeans, sunglasses covering all their eyes. The band plays behind too many too-tall heads, the sky rains confetti.

We b-line up the street to an apartment we know, fill another roof. Birds pull the curtains dark, we drink warm beer and watch the day die. Slipping south into our afternoon locale, we fill into a bar back room for another.

Two more cab rides, tracing tracks across the city. Scarf down take-out, wake to two white boxes in the fridge. Re-read the cookie paper, 6 13 28 34 37 40. It says: “Next summer you will dance to a different beat.”

Put the last of the leftovers in the microwave, nod head and accept the fortune.