A valuable lesson gained from tutoring: accept a student for who he or she is, and within that space there is abundant room to push them, to encourage them, to teach them to strive for self-improvement.

On the 86th floor of a building off W. 32nd street, when all the world is sleeping, there is an apartment beside the garden roof that comes alive wherein my love and I reside. She is scarcely a child, I no older, and we play on the furniture while not a breath stirs the stillness on the floors below us or the streets below them. She giggles uncontrollably, jumping on the bed, her hair floating in a wild crown suspended above her head for one suspended second. I am in our fort, constructed from couch cushions and blankets, but I stick my head out the front to watch her jumping. I laugh when she misses her landing and falls backwards on the mattress; she pouts, frowns at me, and then laughs anyways, that clear musical laugh ringing out into the quiet world.
We go out to the little garden, hand in hand. Warm light from our apartment plays across the garden grounds, and we play hide-n-go-seek on the roof, nimble creatures of shadow and light. I hide behind the acacia, inside a patch of lavender, under the boards of our garden bench, and she finds me unfailingly each time. Then it's my turn. I spot the hem of her skirt behind the fruit trees, I catch the twinkle of her eyes through the trellises of the vined arbor, and when I cannot see her I wait and a strangled giggle playfully leads me to her.
Hide-n-go-seek turns to tag, a wrestling match on the grass, watching the stars turn in the sky. They sparkle down at us, a thousand children in their own celestial playground. We smile back at them, and hold each other close. When the first star disappears we go back inside, so we don't have to see them all leave. My love is tired, and so am I. We collapse wearily on the couch; I kiss her on her forehead; she twirls her fingers in my hair, smiles wanly. The cares of the world begin to show in her, and I feel them too. The day is ascending, and we are slowly fading away. We lay with each other, a tangle of arms and legs, clinging to our senses, the feel of our skin, the warmth of contact. And the last thing I know before we disappear are the whispered words of sweet nothings in her moist breath.

We will meet again, they say, when all the world is sleeping.