Bells

It is still light when we end up in the East Village: lunch time and nowhere to go but onward. We stumble drunkenly out of the wine bar to the tiki lounge where the drinks are too sweet and into the alphabet bar where it all felt like home. Our clothes are all out of place but the beers are forgiving and you leave your number to the man who looks like Jesus. 

The cabbie speaks of the falafel place on MacDougal and 3rd because it is better than anything else and Should I take you there now? But you are too close to home to change your minds now. The Christmas duck lingers on your tongue while you think of Cairo. 

It is only the means to an end, you yell at him, between sips of PBR and lemon. Don't ever forget why you are doing this, and it will all be worth it. 

The New York night hums in your ear drum. 

You remember.