If you're wrong about the smoke

Molly's been planning a recovery of sorts. In the hinterlands of Middlebury it is easy to feel undone - all those sterling silver dolphin earrings and Tevas with Smartwool socks. So I've planned a quick trip back to the Big Apple. Hoping to be bitten by anything (one) with teeth. Maybe spend the entire sum of my Friday pay on a pair of shoes.

I'm staying in an apartment in Manhattan - a friend of friends. Who leaves their home open to a complete stranger? Molly Arden, no less?! If it's anything other than a wooden table with a single glass and a cotton blanket in the corner I may spend the entire weekend sifting through the delicious contents of a stranger's home. Imagine what sort of souvenir someone might choose from among your things. What could go missing without your noticing it but still serve as a fulfilling representative of a stay at your place? Would it be the gecko necklace tucked in the nightstand drawer? The very tiny pottery bowl at the back of your hutch? Smaller? Well, maybe it'd be the pearl button tossed in the top drawer of the hall desk among the change, the gum, the chapstick.

It's the city. She makes me nervous and turns me on. She's got her ass backed up against me in bed and I can't decide whether to pretend I'm still sleeping or just say Fuck It, Thank you, More. Bright whore dirty art around window cage tree cage light dick death taxi show. I feel like waking up.

I can't promise I won't be thinking about what I'd like to steal from this lovely stranger who's been kind enough to open his apartment to me for the weekend. I can't say that I won't be a whole new Molly on Monday. I might have a new lipstick, a new word, a new muscle. I can say with certainty that I will not be doing the fire dance trick in the living room like that time at Mary Oliver's. That's one promise I intend to keep.