With the streets still scarred by the night’s sobbing, New Year’s Day wakes up
cold—unusually warm for January, though—and dark, with an overcast sky
and a looming hangover, not quite ready for the fake yoga and a full breakfast,
let alone the sight of Kevin Kline making love to Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.
I had forgotten what it was like to lie close to someone—the warmth, the scent,
the thrill of the brush against each newfound curve, the sound of rapid breathing
and barely suppressed moans—but I hoped that life would catch up eventually,
maybe in a year or two, and yet another one has just passed without any change.
Actually, the last statement is not entirely accurate. After all, I’m a year older
and that much less attractive.
hidden pilcrow 