i heart it
I wasn’t going to drink last night but Matthew bought me a glass of very good champagne, and then a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-pape; I should have known. I woke abruptly at 5:30am, two hours ago, from a dream in which Danny nursed me through appendicitis at an Oz Farm magically superimposed on Samarai Park Riding School, with Colin and Maya having a picnic lunch nearby. Between that kind of weirdness and a killer hangover, it was clear I wasn’t getting any more sleep.
So I dragged on my running gear after all and headed out into a light drizzle, which by the time I reached the Apple cube at the corner of Central Park was a wall of water, that thunderstormy rain that comes down in fat warm teardrops. I was soaked to the skin and my glasses were so fogged I had to stand under the street signs to read them. Chivalrous New Yorkers cried out encouragement, and one nice Englishman asked the way to the nearest diner.
“Sorry, I have no idea, I’m from California!” I said cheerfully, before thinking wait – since when have I been from California? The doorman gave me a wink and the woman who shared my elevator did a fantastic double-take.
“Why are you so wet?”
“Ran in the rain.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“No no!” I said fervently: “It was absolutely great.”
It does feel rather like I had sweaty sex with an entire city full of handsome and tremendously gifted men and women. Whaddaya know, I’m poly for New York! Of course everyone is poly for the right girl.
