51 Hour Kiss
I was walking around in dreamtime the week that I met Rocket, an inimitable redhead.
The first night, drinks at one Lower East Side bar and then drinks at another with a platform pillow-covered couch where we kissed. Walking in the rain, sneaking into a community garden to smell the pink roses, through the fishmarket at 2am when the workers and the forklifts had already started to mobilize, and down to the beach at the edge of the East River, underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The sun came up and we went to work. The next day blended into the next night and then the next when I saw him again. He took me to his apartment on Friday night. Drinks and cigarettes and conversation and sex. Breakfast and coffee and talks and lying around naked and looking at books and pictures and walking through the waterfront neighborhood and meeting the cast of local characters, smoking, more food, naked again, talking, laughing, playing.
Saturday silently eased into Sunday. I didn't go home until 3:30 in the morning on Monday. That afternoon, he sent me an email with the subject heading "51 Hour Kiss".
