The neighbors didn’t know if they loved or hated what they were hearing.
But they definitely heard. Because the two of us weren’t quiet.
Like, when I exhaled, the bed frame rattled. And when he whispered, the floor vibrated.
And the entire time, we smoked and drank espresso. There was nothing in the refrigerator, except for dark chocolate (90%!) and champagne. I always kept a fresh glass of water on the night table, the one on my side of the bed.
My spine opened wider every time I twisted toward him.
Everyone talked about us while we spoke Italian to each other; within the August heat of a New York City sun, in the center of midtown Manhattan – not far from Grand Central station – underneath a cloudless sky.
We would speak to each other with our lips touching, a low song that no one else had ever sang to me before.
I only wore dresses. Not very much makeup. Only Chanel lipstick that he picked out for me, and which didn’t usually work out. I ordinarily kissed it off on the first napkin to reach me during one of our days spent walking the city together – before his tongue was in my mouth again.
We talked about family and architecture and traveling, mostly. Sometimes orchestra. Sometimes poetry… (excerpt)
ex·cerpt | noun
1. a short extract from a piece of music or writing.
My favorite part of the day was in my midtown abode, roped in braids of sweat, being serenaded in Italian. That was without a doubt one of my ultimate, “Holy shit, is this actually my life?” moments. Continue reading
FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.