At the restaurant, we order champagne at 5 in the afternoon. The waitress asks us if it is a special occasion, and we tell her that it always is. We talk of walls, and the good they never did anyone, and of Emma Lazarus. On the tenth floor, in the same room we filled last time, I see the streetlights have come on across the city, orange blossoms amid dirty slush streets and the billowing plant.

He draws me until April 3rd becomes the 4th, and when I wake from where I’ve been positioned against the sheets for warmth, I find my hair sketched in gorgeous, rich swoops of dark charcoal, my hands soft blushes of gray.

In the morning, my pockets are stashed with Benadryl and champagne corks and smudged I Love You notes.


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