Hot Minute
iPhone says the weather will be stormy, he announces.
But she's not paying attention.
He slides the phone in his pocket.
I make decisions, decide to purchase. They beat me to checkout.
The iPhone rings.
Late night, the store is closing and the ring echoes.
Over the counter, I'm asked about paper or plastic. It's philosophical, really.
"Neither." I'll hold it.
I walk fast out the door.
I'm late.
We meet on the corner of an avenue and street, her and I. I'm semi-lost. She asks why I didn't get a bag. The moon dips behind a curtain of clouds. A car honks,a generator hisses, a man raises a cup half-full with change at passers-by. It's that normal soundtrack of the City. I say I'm so tired of honking cars. She says we need to make it 30 blocks in 30 minutes. I whistle as we walk.
She smiles.
Down the stairs, we head to the catacombs.
Red or blue line, 1/2/3, A/C/E, X/Y/Z? The train is late. I make a crude comment about the F train, making further crude comments comparing it with the local and express. She laughs.
Take the subway then, only halfway, and take a taxi across the island, east to west, where the trains can't run. Next to me, she's singing the song on the radio. We pull up, we pull over.
Stop.
Debit or Credit? Cash. Cash back, too. And a receipt. So I remember. It can't be another New York morning, staring into an empty wallet bewildered.
Riverside. Up a street, down a street, over a block. She's wearing high heels and they click on the pavement.
Stop at the corner. Cars shoot by. Everyone in a rush. A woman strolls up, walking a dog. She's in no rush. I look at my reflection in the mirror while she fixes her hair. The breeze blows. The doorman nods, salutes with his hat. I realize we're river-side. The air is better here.
Open door, close door. Up 30 stories to his place. More mirrors in the elevator. I fix my hair. She stares. I consider kissing her deep and long, and she stares at me with absolute passion filled in her eyes. The mirrors make it all seem multiplied. Open door, close door, open door, he's there. We're the only one's there, in the hallway, and he tells us to take our shoes off before we step on the carpet. He smiles as he greets us. I shake his hand, unknowing what to do as his girlfriend comes in for a hug. I smile. She smiles. We smile.
The apartment is cavernous for a New York apartment, and I sit on a couch a explain, "This is true living, especially on this island."
He pours a drink. Another for me, and one for them. They drink, I sip. He asks if I want vodka, rum, whiskey, bourbon, beer. "No, water is fine." It was a long weekend, I explain. He claims there is no water. "But there is wine." My decision turns from water to wine. "Never stand empty-handed." I smile. She smiles back. The two of them, him and her, smile at both of us. This is how porn movies start. And horror movies. I tell them that. "It's funny how the two seem related," I say. Everyone laughs. I'm the center of attention. In New York it's a magnificent feeling.
I turn to her and she's still staring, eyes deep in mine. It's a heavy smile, mine. She grins. It's a sharp grin.
Other's enter. Door opens, closes, opens, closes, opens, closes. Shoes are scattered across the hallway. Seven people have iPhones. Four say it will rain within ten minutes. One of them is juggling their phone with a glass of wine, careful not to spill it on the carpet.
The carpet is a gorgeous ivory.
More wine. More wine bottles. We uncork two within a minute, pouring.
Pretty soon we're all drunk and it's raining outside. Pouring.
"I want to give my soul what it needs. Tell me this is more than booze, sex and weed," he says. He's pouring, his soul, his drink.
I say I like a painting on his wall. He says he doesn't know the painter or era. I ask if he bought it at Wal-Mart. He stares at me with a blank expression.
"Ikea."
Whatever, and then there is a clap of thunder, and the thunder in the City sounds so foreign, so weird, echoing off the multitude of concrete and glass walls, rattling down the avenues.
"Come smoke with me," he says.
"Why?" But I walk out the door anyways.
He hands me a cigar and it feels so masculine, outside, in the rain, smoking cigars. I attempt to blow smoke rings and cough.
"I don't smoke."
He smiles.
We stand under a canvass overhang, the doorman behind the glass doors.
The rain is coming down and there is lightening and another clap of thunder and she walks out and he stares at me, then her, then us, then smiles, then walks back in.
I exhale, smoke escaping my lips.
She smiles.
For one hot minute we stand there.
It's raining and we step closer then, to avoid the water pouring off the canvass.
But she's not paying attention.
He slides the phone in his pocket.
I make decisions, decide to purchase. They beat me to checkout.
The iPhone rings.
Late night, the store is closing and the ring echoes.
Over the counter, I'm asked about paper or plastic. It's philosophical, really.
"Neither." I'll hold it.
I walk fast out the door.
I'm late.
We meet on the corner of an avenue and street, her and I. I'm semi-lost. She asks why I didn't get a bag. The moon dips behind a curtain of clouds. A car honks,a generator hisses, a man raises a cup half-full with change at passers-by. It's that normal soundtrack of the City. I say I'm so tired of honking cars. She says we need to make it 30 blocks in 30 minutes. I whistle as we walk.
She smiles.
Down the stairs, we head to the catacombs.
Red or blue line, 1/2/3, A/C/E, X/Y/Z? The train is late. I make a crude comment about the F train, making further crude comments comparing it with the local and express. She laughs.
Take the subway then, only halfway, and take a taxi across the island, east to west, where the trains can't run. Next to me, she's singing the song on the radio. We pull up, we pull over.
Stop.
Debit or Credit? Cash. Cash back, too. And a receipt. So I remember. It can't be another New York morning, staring into an empty wallet bewildered.
Riverside. Up a street, down a street, over a block. She's wearing high heels and they click on the pavement.
Stop at the corner. Cars shoot by. Everyone in a rush. A woman strolls up, walking a dog. She's in no rush. I look at my reflection in the mirror while she fixes her hair. The breeze blows. The doorman nods, salutes with his hat. I realize we're river-side. The air is better here.
Open door, close door. Up 30 stories to his place. More mirrors in the elevator. I fix my hair. She stares. I consider kissing her deep and long, and she stares at me with absolute passion filled in her eyes. The mirrors make it all seem multiplied. Open door, close door, open door, he's there. We're the only one's there, in the hallway, and he tells us to take our shoes off before we step on the carpet. He smiles as he greets us. I shake his hand, unknowing what to do as his girlfriend comes in for a hug. I smile. She smiles. We smile.
The apartment is cavernous for a New York apartment, and I sit on a couch a explain, "This is true living, especially on this island."
He pours a drink. Another for me, and one for them. They drink, I sip. He asks if I want vodka, rum, whiskey, bourbon, beer. "No, water is fine." It was a long weekend, I explain. He claims there is no water. "But there is wine." My decision turns from water to wine. "Never stand empty-handed." I smile. She smiles back. The two of them, him and her, smile at both of us. This is how porn movies start. And horror movies. I tell them that. "It's funny how the two seem related," I say. Everyone laughs. I'm the center of attention. In New York it's a magnificent feeling.
I turn to her and she's still staring, eyes deep in mine. It's a heavy smile, mine. She grins. It's a sharp grin.
Other's enter. Door opens, closes, opens, closes, opens, closes. Shoes are scattered across the hallway. Seven people have iPhones. Four say it will rain within ten minutes. One of them is juggling their phone with a glass of wine, careful not to spill it on the carpet.
The carpet is a gorgeous ivory.
More wine. More wine bottles. We uncork two within a minute, pouring.
Pretty soon we're all drunk and it's raining outside. Pouring.
"I want to give my soul what it needs. Tell me this is more than booze, sex and weed," he says. He's pouring, his soul, his drink.
I say I like a painting on his wall. He says he doesn't know the painter or era. I ask if he bought it at Wal-Mart. He stares at me with a blank expression.
"Ikea."
Whatever, and then there is a clap of thunder, and the thunder in the City sounds so foreign, so weird, echoing off the multitude of concrete and glass walls, rattling down the avenues.
"Come smoke with me," he says.
"Why?" But I walk out the door anyways.
He hands me a cigar and it feels so masculine, outside, in the rain, smoking cigars. I attempt to blow smoke rings and cough.
"I don't smoke."
He smiles.
We stand under a canvass overhang, the doorman behind the glass doors.
The rain is coming down and there is lightening and another clap of thunder and she walks out and he stares at me, then her, then us, then smiles, then walks back in.
I exhale, smoke escaping my lips.
She smiles.
For one hot minute we stand there.
It's raining and we step closer then, to avoid the water pouring off the canvass.
posted by Chris Miles at 11:02 PM
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