There she was, crossed legs & arms folded, one on top of the other. Her hair was long and neatly combed, a fine brown, an auburn nearing the tawny autumn of English literature paleness, and her face was lovely. She did not like eye contact, and did not want to be here. She was my patient, like a breeze passing on by, on a summer's night, which it was. Her boyfriend called her in, because she wanted to kill herself, and well, sad dames & troubled men who want to kill themselves were the only sort of patients I saw.

It was a beautiful girl on a beautiful night. It was three in the morning in my office, so I asked her the requisite question, "Do you want to kill yourself?"

"No."

"Okay. We'll follow up with you in a few days, but you can go home."

"Thank you."

She signed the medical & research papers, called a cab, and left.

She looked at no one. She was also the loveliest girl I'd ever seen, & the kind I'd fall in love with, young & silent & mooded & artistic in a classic, subtle way. She was a photographer.

I had met a beautiful stranger who wanted to kill herself.

---


Last night we all laughed about tattoos & the newest in fine dining experimentation, & bantered the vivre of Munich & all bustling cities. My tending partner & I agreed to meet in Berlin, at the behest of the teasing chef we were drinking with. The topic changed to dating, & identity in New York.

A couple walked in, ordered their drinks; proceeded to exchange looks and be slowly outraged at our playful verbal parry-fest.

I didn't recognize her at first, even though she was dressed lovely. Her hair was hacked short & highlighted, her tongue was sharper. She didn't kill herself. She let her misery turn her ugly instead.

monsters everywhere; they wear masks. sometimes i find someone i think i can be safe with, but it turns out to be another monster. and truth is, i walk among them often, drink & dance with them, & keep company with them, but i don't like them. & i don't love them.

i gave you a rhapsody while the shower head rained down. i was the discipline, innate, and the jazz ebbed and flowed, and even when i idled, it sounded good because i broke & crescendo'd in the way you didn't predict but craved. there is music in me, and a hunger for the new in you.

romance is laziness. i am guilty.

i brought you flowers, roses, orange & perfume, and this money, this ten-dollar bill in my wallet, and two singles for tip, found you a bouquet with baby's breath & a sprig of fern, wrapped in lace & plastic, on a grey day; signifies my true affection.

a boy rarely buys me flowers.

the last one who did, was years ago, some unseasonal tulips, which i loved, because i loved the mercantile & hybrid history of dual-toned, fringed tulips, not because i had much love for tulips, or the gesture of flowers as an indication for love. the dutch ex-pats had ambition & tenacity.

all true new yorkers are their protege. we are italian and jewish, & irish, & asiatic & ghetto. we are bread in the windows, and cobblestones covered over by asphalt & concrete, consistently pot-holing when the snows come. we salt our roads for efficiency. we destroy our streets, our tires, our boots & pretty shoes. we are used to frequent dissolves of beautiful structure; rebuild & repave come spring.

there is a new road, built over the old one, built over another one; layers & layers, and sometimes, in the dead of night, in summers, i want to lay down on 1st avenue, or broadway, and be so close to this city that holds us all up.

she asks me to come for a drink, which i'd rather not, because she is asking for something to ease her loneliness & ennui, but i come anyway. i order a drink and she orders a drink, and she makes talk with the men & the barkeeps who are also men, or children with the faces of men, and i let the ice melt. it gets late, and a pair of attractive bodies walk in, and they do the exchange of glances, because they are fool enough to knock for opportunity. if i were a man, they would leave me alone so that i could have my silence at the bar, but i am a young woman, and not repulsive, and not mean.

he drools out his resume, struggles for common ground, and i am uninterested & disinterested & politely listening so his friend can entertain my friend. i could be at home. i could be with a book that does not offend me with its shoddy nature in formula & algorithm. friday nights are for amateurs and i am happier on my fire escape with my guitar.

cavemen didn't go up to women with their skins of dead animals, and get laid, posturing.