Walking home eighth avenue, knowing full well this is the time when New York is dead and you could just as well get yourself killed with it. Still I had to check if the girl with the angry man was okay; she shrugged me off but I heard him yell all the way down 23rd street. We girls have to band together; perhaps I should've stuck around. I saw the cab turn and hoped it was to pick her up. Once I reached the gay streak I felt safe, and Hudson like a village street, I was home. My walk nowhere near straight, I stumbled drunkenly southward, famished.
A little wine. A lot of wine, and popping down to the deli for extra Stellas. Eyeing the Sunday Times on my way home, and do you know they are about to charge for their internet content. We have Pride, they yell, but who will listen. Tomorrow is Sunday. Now is Sunday. I put my ear plugs in; I am content.
Just trying to get a little sleep.
Out there in the Chelsea night.
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