A freckle faced old acquaintance called me up around seven, just as she crossed the Golden Gate. I still live here, I assured her. I buy the wine, I drink the water. I have not been to the theatre, I know it's right there.

The car remained running. I tried not to focus entirely on the men in skirts, their sexy legs, my chapped lips. I fought the urge to lick them, to show I wasn't nervous, or interested in hookers. I kept my whole self inside the car, windows cracked an inch. Let the fog fill the bay and the words inside us.

"That one's a girl," I said as I remembered sadly, my old friend doesn't smoke. I don't either unless it's handed to me. We decided margaritas were a splurge but a slow buzz. Champagne is like playing house.

I want again the euphoria I've felt in New York. Driving in the rural dark, tall can of malt liquor in the passanger's seat. Radio playing songs from a decade ago, all the good stuff. I should leave this state, I thought, neither of us had changed. Neither of us are drastic enough, not many people are.

But this crowd, hop-scotching through genders in leather pants and purple stockings, truly frightening and yes fabulous.

She held a map of the city with notes and arrows. It was already dark but she was ready to go. I told her I don't write much like I used to. I went through a worthless phase. But this city has pretty much cured my promiscuity. It's dirty, so I'm at home more, always locking every door. Fearing for my life just feels right.

We decided against the rum and coke, against the low carb beer, and my personal favorite five dollar merlot. We drove through another neighborhood, and back to this one.

"I was wrong, that's not a girl."

I would not fall asleep until I had it right. She clicked on the dashboard light and said well lady, I got a drive ahead of me. So stay in school, chin up, and if you ever need a futon to crash on.

Come to my town.

Plenty of room for you there.

04/02/2005

Posted on 04/03/2005
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