FULL OF HOT AIR
BALLOON BOY
Before Duck arrives I sit in my window, slowly sucking on cigarettes, letting them char down to the filter. The smell of the filter burning signals that I've got my money's worth, that I deserve another. I finished a task. Nothing goes to waste. He rolls down 2nd street and I can hear him before I see him. The roar of a lion, of a metal beast ripping down an otherwise quiet life. The noise is for me, it's mine. That all-encompassing nausea rises in me and I wait to hear the gate to the metal stoop clang, as he ascends the stairs. Each stomp of those steel-capped boots echoed through my body. I eagerly await him entering my front door. It's summertime hot, dripping, sopping wet, sweaty, feral fucked hot. I want to wrap him in a wet towel, in my arms, between my legs. I desire for him to grab me by the throat and pin me against the wall, I want him to love me, to whisper words in my ear, words I have never heard, words I have to look up, words that hurt me, words to ruminate on, words to destroy me.
I watched his Roman nose with it's smattering of freckles as he blew up pink balloons for Bella's arrival. He took to the balloon blowing like he was at the Coney Island hot dog eating contest. His hyper-focus on the task at hand was mesmerizing, I watched him, and I was sure I could watch him all day. I found him beyond interesting. Beyond the cliff face of interest. He floated mid-air, untouchable and I just watched in disbelief. It's the type of fascination that is blinding, and sickening. I wanted him to talk at me, tell me everything, all the things that happened to him, all the things he did. I wanted him to tell me what he regrets, how he fucked up, who he fucked, who he loves, who he hates, what makes him sad, what makes him sleep, and what moves him.
We nipped down to Jac's for a cocktail. It was dewy and hot out, so we went inside to grab a couple of martinis. The bar was full of clean people, people who didn't bear the physical attributes of having made mistakes, they appeared to not have been ruffed by life, unlike Duck and me.
We pop outside to sit alone on Bond Street. Cars turn down the street and their headlights hit me in the face, he moved his head to shade me from the light pollution. I wanted him to kiss me, so I masticate my olives and feed them to him, he's my baby bird. He returns the favor and this feeding time of two zoo animals in downtown Manhattan is a spectacle. However there's no one to observe. No children to scare. It's just him and I, and our olives. You do something three times and it becomes tradition. That was our third time being feathered freaks.
We decide to kick on for dinner, the local Vietnamese joint is shut. A group of youths watch us walk past and yell "you look cool" I grab him and say, they think you're cool. He says that's all you. They yell back " You're both cool". It begins to pour. I love walking in the rain, the water soaks through the clothing and we're being bathed alive, in public. We don't walk faster, it's nice getting wet. It feels real, why run for cover? Rain hurts no one, especially when you're in love.
