from whitestone bridge, queens below sits like a visionary hamlet in an illuminated manuscript. it is taking me long to wear off this sweet sangria funk from my system. my friend, the one driving and heedless to the endless patter from this coworker of his wedged in the front seat, keeps cracking his neck. his head is a baroque pearl, large and irregular. “we should do something this weekend,” his shrill coworker keeps saying, not content with our friday happy hour rendezvous. it’s a long weekend and the guy is marooned with his family. the late afternoon sun tunnels through the estuary and the darkening waters, when a breeze blows, gleam like a vat of thick broth. stuck in my own syrup, i sink into the back seat while twiddling with my phone about to run out of juice.