Tuesday, August 19, 2008

"I'm going to do exactly what I did in San Fransisco, fuck everybody, and then no-one is going to want to speak to me," he said, and he wasn't lying.

He found a cassette player and a stack of cassette tapes. He put four batteries into the tape player and we went to walk through Sunday evening's East Village. The tape player played "Teenage Wildlife" and "Upside Down" and he wore it from his wrist like purse. I bought him pizza, he ate it with ketchup, the sky was as purple as a jewel toned aubergine. "In America they say eggplant," I say to myself and feel what it will be like to look back on this present as the past.

I wore his shoes about the Village and all the way home where we lay down and watched the first few scenes of "The Women", before he fell to sleep and I cut my losses and we intertwined ourselves in a profoundly intimate embrace. We slept like that, or rather I lay like that, thinking about his body and my body, and how they differed, and how they were the same, and how we were all just swimming together in an electromagnetic soup anyway. Phelps won his first gold medal somewhere that night.

In the morning a thunderstorm rolled over us and poured down luxuriously. He took my hand and led me to the other end of the bed so we could watch the storm. He kissed my fingertips, his stubble not ticklish, not painful, multiplying each stroke of contact by a thousand.

I had often wondered what had prompted his cross-country cycle to New York.

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