(no subject)
A love letter to no-one in particular.
Dear sir,
Walking home from dinner tonight at that restaurant--you know the one--with the vegetarian food and all the waiters I think are improbably hot? Well, walking home from dinner tonight, I was cold.
It's flooding downstate, but here we've been having the most glorious weather. Unseasonably cool, but I'll take it.
I was cold, but as I walked past the auto body shop--that strange, anachronistic building, a remnant of the days when this neighborhood was full of Puerto Ricans and hustlers and drugs, and not insipid faggots and banal young white parents--
As I walked past the auto body shop, with its expanse of red brick, I felt its warmth. Radiating. Like your body, in bed. Although frankly, that's usually an object of annoyance, and it makes me want to crawl out from under the covers.
The weather's been cool, but the near-solstice sun still carries some heat. I marveled at the just-what-I-needed quality of that warmth.
As I walked further down the street, I passed that awful bar, and the sex toy shop, and the uppity condo building called "The Dakota," with its ridiculously upscale dry cleaner, and the nightclub frequented by men whose first language frequently is Spanish, and the thrift store uneasily facing Whole Foods--
As I walked further down the street, past those more brick buildings, they warmed me, too. And I wish I could say that there wasn't a certain significance in that fact.
Yours,
me.
Dear sir,
Walking home from dinner tonight at that restaurant--you know the one--with the vegetarian food and all the waiters I think are improbably hot? Well, walking home from dinner tonight, I was cold.
It's flooding downstate, but here we've been having the most glorious weather. Unseasonably cool, but I'll take it.
I was cold, but as I walked past the auto body shop--that strange, anachronistic building, a remnant of the days when this neighborhood was full of Puerto Ricans and hustlers and drugs, and not insipid faggots and banal young white parents--
As I walked past the auto body shop, with its expanse of red brick, I felt its warmth. Radiating. Like your body, in bed. Although frankly, that's usually an object of annoyance, and it makes me want to crawl out from under the covers.
The weather's been cool, but the near-solstice sun still carries some heat. I marveled at the just-what-I-needed quality of that warmth.
As I walked further down the street, I passed that awful bar, and the sex toy shop, and the uppity condo building called "The Dakota," with its ridiculously upscale dry cleaner, and the nightclub frequented by men whose first language frequently is Spanish, and the thrift store uneasily facing Whole Foods--
As I walked further down the street, past those more brick buildings, they warmed me, too. And I wish I could say that there wasn't a certain significance in that fact.
Yours,
me.