Discussing the world under the shade of nighttime clouds, again she shamed me for forgetting my kindness in Williamsburg. I now vaguely remember putting my hand up her pant leg in efforts to squeeze the last drops of beer from the fabric. Skin-to-skin contact is uncharacteristic for me.
A lot of beer was spilled that night. Some on her, some on the poor fellow at the punk rock bar, and the rest was spilled down my hungry gullet. Alas, I can't remember everything all the time...
We looked through the old recipe booklets we found inside the coffee shop. The vintage illustrations of Aunt Jemima were even more offensive then the coconut pancake creations detailed within.
The distracting conversations of our neighbors constantly accented our periphery. Young, over-confident Brooklyn pukes lackadaisically discussing their superiority...
"...Tricky's manager has my demo. Astralworks has my demo..."
Confidence does not equal talent my dear.
We left in search of another outdoor venue at around 11 pm. Somewhere up the strip, we run into friends of hers and join them for a drink.
They leave eventually and we are left alone again. I try to light her cigarette with the candle, but somehow manage to spill wax all over her shirt. I offer to spend Friday picking it off, but she declines.
I show her my bubble-scarred fingerprint, then dip it over and over in the hot wax to try and make a new digit, or a wax glove.
She asks about him in bold but delicate questions. I answer candidly, she smiles and nods, smiles and nods. "That sucks" she says.
Maybe it does...it's been so long, it's hard to remember.
I can see sympathy. I can see her falling into me...
