Private eyes

Ok. It's official. I've been back in the city 3 weeks and a day today. They say that anything you do for 3 weeks straight is supposed to be a new habit. I think I've written every day for the past 6 months. Do you think this is a habit? God, I hope so.

I'm still using a bag I bought in London. Back in 1998. One thing I love about New York, it has mad food lines. Maybe it's just at Tompkins. Hope not. But not only do you get to eat for free but you also get to sit in the park to eat. How nice is that? And probably a welcome relief from the worry and stress of your life. Or maybe the park is your home.

I wore my new strapless bra to work tonight. Only with straps. I think it'll work. Hopefully. Not sure I can return it post use. I'll tell ya, it's an experience gettting fitted for a strapless bra. I went to a place called Town Shop. They take your name and you wait to be called for your fitting. Once in a dressing room, a woman comes in, guesses your size and then leaves. She returns with handfulls of bras. And the fitting is the funniest part. She straps you in to your potential, new strapless bra. You have to lean forward, or at least I did, and it's weird. A woman you've never met, may never see again in life, is staring at you half naked to make sure the bra fits. And the worst is when it doesn't. So there you are, exposed. In a bra that you're poking out of somewhere awkward. She knows it and you know it. I kept telling Tony when he was here in the city that I've lost all worries and inhibitions about my body. Traveling, you share space with people you've never met, so you just pretty much stop caring. Well, this fitting almost resurrected them all. Oh, who cares? Bodies are just some strange forms that all of us are stuffed into and forced to own.

After work, I rode my bike home with Blake. Around midnight. His girlfriend just touched down in Australia. Cool, right? So we rode home through Central Park. Nice ride indeed. He broke off in the 30s. So many people infiltrate the neighborhood on the weekends. And they're not always fun either. But they're there.


Matilda looked over her left shoulder toward the eyes she could feel on her back. She saw him. A man in a fidora, long black hair slicked underneath it, dressed in linen. He didn't smile when they're eyes locked, only looked back. She turned her head further and found the eyes she'd felt on her. A woman in persimmon with huge hoops in her ears. Up from her stool, Matilda made for the door. She knew when she was unwelcome. Or being watched.

A priest was reading scripture on the corner. He met her eyes also. But this time she felt acceptance.

She ducked into a bodega on the next block. The back had a lounge and pool tables. And fans. In this heat Matilda preferred to keep out of the sun. The staps of her dress already becoming see-through from perspiration, she pulled out her own fan and took a seat at a table in the corner. She wanted to be sure she'd lost both parties from the last joint.

She ordered a liter of Presidente. As she sipped, condensation dripped down her chest. She thanked god for the few moments of cool.