New York Nights

Written: 06/20/2010

It’s impossibly humid for three o’clock in the morning, and warm too, but she’s half naked and on a natural high and could care less. Living on an island, the most wild island known around the world, you get used to these things. Three AM in Manhattan is exactly like three PM, everyone has somewhere to go, someplace to be, someone to be with, something to see. Their intent is just different. Her hair is stuck to her neck, back, shoulders, with sweat. Sweat from the heat, sweat from the night. Her skirt is too short, the night is too loud, her nylons are clingy and damp. She took off her heels hours ago and is, insanely enough, walking, in just her stocking feet, up Second avenue. Catcalls are always familiar, too many nights of walking, scantily clad, the streets on New York. She ignores them. She’s flying and all she wants is Him. Rough hands, smacking, pinching, scratching, pulling. Punishing mouth, mean teeth. Dark eyes and hair and heart. His eyes and teeth and hands and heart. Looking, biting, pulling and whispering to her. She's walking away from Him and wants nothing else, nothing more in this great big city, in this awesome world, in the endless expanse of noise and sky and stars, then to go back. Back where it’s warm and loud and underground and, sometimes, infinitely silent. To His dark eyes, and dark heart.