A living room. Impressionist pastels hanging alongside family portraits sit neatly on lavender walls. Floral drapes match the sofa and chez-lounge. A cupboard of fine crystal glassware balances on spindly carved wooden legs. If you sat on the sofa, you would smell rosemary and lilac soap. A slight clink and whistle of a wind chime may be heard from the door. A woman enters, mid thirties, wearing slacks and a blazer with a pin on the left lapel, she carries a plate of delicate cookies and sets them on the dark wooden coffee table in front of the sofa. She sits on the sofa, crosses her legs and sighs.
He was 23, I was 20. 1975. Before Iggy Pop went to Berlin and everyone wanted to fuck Sid Vicious. You could see my ribs through my skin and sculpt my stomach out of marble.
He had a one bedroom three blocks fro the Metro. Where I first saw the Stooges.
We didn’t have any chairs. We did everything on the floor, at Chinese food, slept on a futon, cut coupons, cut cocaine, fucked.
I never noticed how cracked the ceilings were until I was looking up at them from underneath him.
In the morning I would tape newspaper to the windows to keep the sun out
There was never any toilet paper.
And the dishes, the few that we had, were always stained with old milk or soup and got lost on windowsills, waiting to be nudged out by someone’s drunk ass.
Our wardrobes became one collection of black pants and cutoff tees.
Even though our locks broke within the first month and you could climb through the window from the fire escape, I have never felt safer. he fell asleep on my chest and the ceilings were perfect, dishwashers didn’t exist. The sun never rose and we had no phone bills. I’ve never slept so well.
