It was too hot to do anything but sit around and complain about the heat. We ran out of ice cubes and drank warm water from the tap, wiping the sweat from under our knees and behind our necks. My cheeks were flushed pink. His shirt was soaked through. The city felt damp from humidity and summer angst.
The air conditioner was broken.
“Want to do it?” he asked. A bead of sweat dribbled down his forehead and clung to his brow.
The thought of any physical activity was enough to make me roll off the couch, lie on the floor and stretch my legs out against the cool wood planks. I could feel dust sticking to my thighs.
“Great, I’m so happy you want to boredom-fuck me.”
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth