The first day of this year I spent thirteen hours in bed with Kat. I woke up staring into Siouxsie's enormously lined eyes. We ate breakfast past 3:30, toast and jam and egg and Simon & Garfunkel. A day at Kat's house is its own color scheme, epoch, towels, plates, publications, ERA era, French horn, prayer flags, poor lighting, nail-polish-painted sheet. Kat is purple and tomatoes and sunshine, Mediterranean teal and pink duct tape.
On that long, long train ride home I considered my future ex-boyfriend and how long that might take. I started in like it was a new year, taped up David Bowie and then Shakespeare.
I didn't finish the wall or the shelves and drawers or papers or the book about punk. All my friends are racking up their months together and it took me nineteen days. I don't know enough comic-book villians. He could have shared but there's snowny miles between and we can't fly. I'm picking them up elsewhere, going in other directions. I want to really fly back to the city all summer.