Undeniably back in New York Fucking City
I just met the most delightful guy EVER working at the Duane Reade down the block from my apartment. Our conversation:
“Did you catch the fireworks show this year?” I ask. For some reason I was actually feeling social. Maybe I was feeling grateful that I narrowly escaped the south before a tropical storm slammed into New Orleans; maybe it was my nap.
“Nah, I was getting some in the bedroom instead,” he offers genuinely.
“Oh, well that’s romantic, sort of,” I ponder. I was battling away a visual of this thin, pale skinned, braided young man doing his tall, dark, full-figured woman as fireworks blast away in the background through his roach-infested, cinder block-walled cheap apartment window. Probably with a Jets or Janet Jackson poster hanging near by; probably with Pringles and fast food trash accenting the mildewy carpet and thrift-store couch.
“As long as I can pop my wife off, I get to celebrate every day,” he says.
That’s sweet I guess.