theres a cough
and a wheeze
and the bell of a bike, the bell of a bi-cy-cle - 1140 in the evening, no wait, right, its 2340, oh god im - im here again, im back again, im back off course.

--

i remember, i remember - not a week ago i ate a meal of raw meat with a good friend after a few glasses of some polish vodka, and before a few glasses more. i remember him stirring the raw egg and the capers and the onions into the wet red mix before we spooned it onto torn peices of nearly stale baguettes - it looked so damned civilized. i remember the doll-like northeast asian girl - certainly of japanese or korean descent - who served us our wine - her dark eyes and elegant affectation - the kind of look local only to lower manhattan. which was where we happened to be sitting. there, i thought to myself as i looked at the gentle line of her shoulders and back and the whip of her hair -- there is where i am going.

--

2342, and the coughing is closer now. loud, shameless hacking and coughing, i gutteral and bellowing - so loud that i thought i could hear the yellow of the offending globs, the spit flying the -

a man, 60ish, in full business suit is swerving insanely on his bicycle, left and write and left and - a jagged etch-a-sketch line - a glistening red slick of vomit running down the front of his suit he rings his bell at me, his northeast asian features stretched by the alcohol .. and for a moment im back in new york.

TBC