"61 seconds is all it takes"

An hour of time was lost between last night and this morning. That was an hour less time spent sleeping next to Taylor, an hour less to look at this cute sleeping body next to me, to feel on my other side the expanse of air, seemingly dangerous, the bed lofted high and up a rickety ladder, an hour less to hear cars passing by, whooshes punctuating with no particular rhythm the quiet of the night, sometimes with periods, sometimes with ellipses, sometimes with exclamation points, sometimes even with question marks, an hour less time to look a the ceiling just a couple feet above my sleeping face - all of these things, attributes to this particular bedroom, reminding me of other particular bedrooms, past ones of mine, of the street sounds that sneak in through windows left open to cool apartments, even in winter, this sound on certain nights letting you know that you live in New York City, that this is what you dreamed about when you slept in quiet bedrooms of youth in Northern Virginia, that you wanted to hear noise, to know that other people are out there, up at all hours, to be pressed close against other people, to have the street, the city just right out that open window, the sounds of passing cars, of drunk passerby, that this is what it is to live here - this noise is New York. The sound can be magic sometimes, particularly when you are again feeling what it is to have a crush, to be a little awkward, and lie next to the person you have a crush on as they sleep, unsure of what anything is, knowing that they still like their ex-boyfriend, that he is probably moving soon, that he is a lot younger than you, but also that you are having a lot of fun, that he seems to like you, and that you are actually happy. That it is a joy to have these concerns, sometimes frustrating but always invigorating, that renew aspects of your core that feel these thrills life can give in the early stages of a romance - a defibrillator jolting you back to life. I lay there listening to the occasional passing car, enjoying the concerns, the feelings that come with not knowing and desiring to, and then not desiring to, telling yourself to just enjoy the ride in a moment of exhilaration when your more Pollyannaish side tells your more jaded side to just quit talking, to take a hit from the bong, and just enjoy the ride, girl. I got an hour less of that. He woke up for work this morning and we walked to the train together, picking up coffee along the way.

I lay on my couch once home, the coffee doing little to pull me out of the arms of tiredness, its grip much tighter, possessive lover that it is.

I drank another cup of coffee, showered, put on shoes, clothes, and willed myself out to the door to the gym. The weather seemed to coincide perfectly with the clocks. The day we spring them forward an hour, make our days longer, our lives immediately more enjoyable, the sun out to a decent hour now, that star whose rays we are addicted to, junkies all out in the streets today out for a fix, squealing with the satisfaction of having scoring a big hit. The sun seemed to be shining particular brighter today, celebrating it with us as well. It was in the fifties and sunny and the beginning of this week with its cold, icy snow seemed so far away.

I read George Saunders' Tenth of December on the way to the gym, nearing the end of the book, reading his excellent "Home" story on the way there. And then, not finishing it on the train, so wowed by it, its hook too deep for me not to finish it, I stopped in the park to finish the story before heading into the gym.

I worked out for quite a bit in this more and more determined attempt to get ripped that I have. It started out as not necessarily a joke - I wanted to get fit when I first joined the gym, but when I would say "I want to get ripped," I didn't actually intend to expend significant energy in that pursuit. But along the way, I have become more and more in love with and addicted to (perhaps addiction too often being confused for love) working out, the feeling that I feel both during and afterwards. It is a high, the right things are released, and I am a much happier person. And so I felt much better today after working out. I walked down, glowing with joy to be walking around this city on this day, walked down to 14th Street. I stopped at the Trader Joe's wine store to stock up on cheap red wine. 

Walking with these bags about to get on the L train, I stopped to read a text. Number not in my phone book. I texted him back. He texted me back. I texted him back. There were a couple more of these, back and forth, back and forth, me waiting on the sidewalk outside of the subway entrance to Brooklyn. I crossed 14th Street, took an 8th Avenue-bound one, took it to Chelsea. He was nice. He had hamsters - this has nothing to do with the sex, just an observation about an older man who keeps hamsters for pets. He had a tattoo of a crab on his shoulder, probably something astrological I imagined. I didn't ask. I fucked him until he came. He threw away the shit-smelling condom and cleaned himself off in the bathroom while I continued to jerk myself off. He came back, helped me come.

As I was getting dressed, he asked me about my tattoo. I told him it was of Walt Whitman. "Literary too!" he said, silently complimenting the other qualities, the ones having to do with physical attraction, that I knew he saw in me from the way he looked at me. "Are you a writer?" he asked.