La Nuit Blanche

12:35am, alone, post-milonga, in search of cigarettes on an empty street somewhere in the teens. pugliese is still clasped around my rib cage, pressed against my feverish brow, warm against my chest, quivering through my limbs, languid, brash, sorrowful, lustful. a tall, lean, slightly toasted stranger with a dozen cakes under his arm is walking parallel on the concrete. it’s going to rain, i feel droplets on my artificially curled hair snaking down my naked back, i am feline, droplets on my lashes make me frown, pout, then lick my lips. the stranger says he loves this, how the city smells, when it’s about to storm. (he says) his name is fabrice, (he says) he had been cooking dinner for two friends, and is out to get some air, some cakes. (he says) he has a beautiful bottle of wine back at his apartment on 13th street, and would i like to join him in toasting the city and the storm? very smooth. so smooth, i feel like vomiting onto his shoes. instead, i ask him if he is french, en français. oui. ok. you speak good french, did you live in paris? non. what is your name? felice. non, vraiment? oui. would you like to taste some amazing wine? non. some cakes? well……non. what is your number? 212-765-4321.

good-bye, fabrice. you are deliciously tempting, and your cakes are almost as tempting, but i am spending the night with osvaldo.