New skirt. Swollen breasts. Good hair. High off life. He’s young, French, 6’3, sexy, cool as smoke. It’s a five minute Citibike to his studio in Hell’s Kitchen. You’re perched on a stoop in the most casually sexy position possible. Minutes later, he’s walking toward you, handsome as a black cat, a smile that lights up the sky; happy you’re there, and you’re you. He moves very fast, full of zest. Like a puppy, he tugs and bounces with eagerness to smother you. Drinking wine, laughing about America and France, he wants you to sit on his face. When you do, it’s like a great day just became your best life. You can’t help yourself. Soon you are sitting on top of him, breasts spilling out of your shirt, watching his face become vulnerable in the warm afternoon light. There are times in life when you are so happy to live that you capitulate to the liberation of surrender and no consequences seem to matter. His hand on your neck, he is behind you, asking if he can come inside. You close your eyes. You’re willing to hold this moment forever.


Thank you.

You make love all night, and he insists you watch movies and sleep over.

When you wake, you sneak out. The exterminator is coming. That’s a good excuse.

You left without saying goodbye! I will see you Sunday right?

All day long, your mind skips back to the memory. You want to dive under your sheets and relive it until you burst.

That night you’re on another date when he texts. He doesn’t answer an hour later when you call him from the bathroom. He texts you for the next three hours, accuses you of ghosting after not saying goodbye and doesn’t respond again.

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