Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

Weather's Here, Wish You Were Beautiful They used to call it the Big Apple, in the days before world events made New York a synonym for tragedy. But when she looks back at that week, all she will remember is the sour tang of apples – in her expensive drinks, the bottle of perfume she couldn’t quite afford, the fruit she ate for breakfast as she wandered the streets in the rain and sheltered in yellow taxicabs. She’s seen this place in films, in books, on television. Gobbled up every image and planned her perfect visit in perfect detail that changed every time. She talked of the 21st birthday she planned to spend in the stores, bars and theatres there, but was barely nineteen when she stumbled into Tiffany’s in achingly beautiful high heels. Money drips through her fingers the way the rain falls off the umbrella hastily bought. Her dreams of this city had not included autumn weather or anything beyond blue heavens pierced by the Manhattan skyline. Fake designer shoes sold at extortionate prices give her blisters and new clothes cling to her like a second soaking skin, but the falling rain touches her skin like light kisses. Everything sparkles when puddles of rain are lit up by the headlamps of oncoming cars in a city too clichéd to sleep. Postcards are written in cramped writing for family and friends. Presents are bought. She throws around exclamation points and dollar bills as if they were going out of fashion. She feels as though she’s the Hollywood lead in an old movie, so she dresses the part in flowing skirts, her lips painted cotton candy pink with sticky sweet gloss, her eyes lined with kohl and heavy with shimmery powder. Tangled, once-blonde curls blowing in the wind as she takes the trip to Ellis Island, or at the top of the Empire State Building looking her Fay Wray best. Her Clara Bow mouth smiles at the man who buys her next drink, and an accent out of place utters her thanks. Bourbon burns her throat as she curls cat-like on a stool in a bar classier than it is affordable. She sips Long Island Iced Tea on Long Island because she can, rather than because she liked the taste. She does a lot of things because she can, because she’s in New York and not a drab industrial city in England. The hostel is sparse, just a bed with dubiously clean covers, full of European backpackers and a gay couple from Toronto. Most nights they don’t even make it back, but dance from club to club, clutching forged IDs in palms sweaty from the heat and heated glances handsome men shoot their way. Coffee, oversized and overpriced bottles of Evian and aspirin take care of hangovers, meticulously applied make-up hides tired skin and weary eyes. The water from public fountains splash over her hands and face when the money runs out and she can’t afford vodka anymore. Two bagels are bought every day – one for breakfast, one for lunch. When she can no longer afford bagels, the ducks in Central Park start to look like a tempting option. An Italian food festival they stumble across offers free pasta dishes in return for complicity in a little light Mediterranean flirting. Central Park in early September glows with the crimson falling leaves that drift past when a chilly breeze blows. As she pauses to take in the view, a solitary leaf settles against her coat. On impulse, born out of years of childhood superstition, she makes a wish before it reaches the ground. ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower