NY2

Union Square subway stairs, again, this time with one resolute tear somewhere inside one spectacle frame. Sudden sadness, Etta James casually shredding hearts, note by minor note. Michelle Williams' doppelganger in tight blonde curls waits for her skim latte. Charles the quiet, Colin-Farrel-looking Frenchman comes in for his single espresso, says Sank You, sits, shakes his head at New York One, stretches his empty cup into my shaking hand, and leaves, that same black and grey scarf tucked into his jacket, hair perennially freshly washed. Come out of a blues-induced stupor at Adorama to purchase one roll of 120 mm B&W film, speaking with an alien voice I didn't even have a year ago today, and the man behind the register looks at me with a kind, puzzled, sympathetic expression, the question behind which, in a fiction of my life, would be "Who broke that girl?"