since saturday, i've resisted writing about this. after a midnight screening of wong kar-wai's 2046, L and i ran to our favorite japanese all-nighter in st. mark's. sharp-set, nothing occupied me except the golden brown, grilled unagi sushied by a high-strung chef before us. and then, just like that, i smelled my old flame. he wasn't there, of course. some inebriated boy from tokyo, perhaps, with this flaming yellow hair sat humming a coldplay song beside me. but he had that vague citrusy smell of a dirty shirt about to mildew that my ex exuded after a brutal basketball game.
things, some things, i guess, will never stop being. a persistence enduring forever for me. the hunger that can only be sated with rice, white, polished and warm. the moon, the fruity breath of a boy named mario something who stole a kiss from me during a fraternity hazing night. my ex's shirts that smelled sometimes of freshly cut grass and, when all of these between L and i are over, these satiny new york buildings so full of night.
