Bra

It's humid.
Some time around midnight the AC kicks on, or rather, is kicked on.
Everything else is kicked off.
As dark as it is, it doesn't feel that way; the computer screen blazing bright, the electricity of it all, the room translucent, latent, lucid. Mixed and changing.
Circuits meld, blend, neurons process, gather, hard drives cultivate, save, lights flash, drives start, little speakers swell, tracks change, signal is found, then lost, fans cool, buzz, text and window fades.
Screen saver.
After everything is silent the AC is the only sound. It breaths polar into the room. It seems like the hot and cold should cause a mist, spiraling and snaking around skin.
In the catacomb of catacombs on the island, she remarks that, if it'll take this long, she'll take it off herself.
Then laughs.
You think of all the places in the world: Cancun, Clearwater, Munich, Montreal, San Francisco, Singapore, and a thousand other places -- and you really don't want to be anywhere else but here, now.
Sometime past midnight it all fades to dream.
Then the alarm is screaming, yelling, and eyes are ripped open.
You can't see the sun rising from the window, deep inside the catacomb apartment.
Outside the air smells different, fresh for the first time, a sea breeze.
Past Ground Zero and on Wall Street, the businessmen look like ghosts at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday.
Which is ironic. For all the right reasons.
She walks and her heels smack the pavement past Trinity Church, heading to the Green 4/5/6. And she smiles.
And lips lock.