“Meet me by the fountain”, I said.

He agrees, “Yes, we’ll go to that little French place”.

It’s 1pm, harsh light in mid-town, he and his beret rush over. “Wait! Like this! Drop the purse, chin to me. Yes, like that. Keep doing that…”

I in my floof & grown-out purple rush over. I drop my bag, <snap snap snap>. We giggle. A guy in work boots at the fountain smirks at us, laughs while finishing his street Gyro. Stomps the foil.

The Beret & the Floof giggle at their absurdity.

How can New York be dead if we’re here?