|
The tech VP with a nice East Village one-bedroom and a slight drinking problem; the global design director at a prestigious magazine with a view of the East River from his bed; the writer who fucks me on an air mattress on his friend's floor. I want a man who will hold my hand, smoke cigarettes with me, and bring me a glass of water at the end of the night. The tech VP and I drink White Claws on the beach while he ditches jury duty, and the next time I see him he accidentally says Love you as he walks me to my Lyft. The global design director gets mad at me when I sit on his kitchen counter and start playing with his knives and cracking jokes about stabbing him and taking over his apartment. The writer tells me I'm prettier in person and I ask if that means I'm ugly on the internet. The twenty-minute subway rides are intervals for intoxication and they're all the same, except the time cops chase me to give me a $25 open container ticket. The tech VP is turned off by the fact that his money turns me on. The global design director has an unimpressive stack of books and I tear out their pages with my teeth. He lets me smoke in his apartment, opening the window and giving me an ashtray. I'm falling asleep in a Lyft home and my phone buzzes with incessant calls from the shitfaced tech VP who needs to tell me that he wishes I didn't leave. The writer and I sit in the corner of the bar singing Radiohead and I put his fingers in my mouth, then we make out in the back of an Uber from Manhattan to Brooklyn, pulling each other close and I moan like the driver isn't there. I tell him I want him to be mine. The next day he tells me not to write about him but he has a girlfriend and a life and I have nothing but words and memories.
|