Her long copper hair is sprawled across the pillow and she breathes slowly, nullifying our morning agenda. Today is her birthday, though, so I don't wake her up.
We spent Saturday night marching up and down Chestnut Street in heels, avoiding the sewer grates and hugging our bodies until we had imbibed enough canned heat to feel warm from the inside. Swirling inside a dark and crowded little dance club, Laila and I sweated out the alcohol with a mixture of house and hip hop, surreptitiously slipping between men, and occasionally breaking for a burst of cool night air. Outside, we made small talk with the door man and patronized all of the boys wearing glasses without prescription lenses. (Most of these boys were also in plaid.) Coquettish banter with almost everyone waiting in line meant that no one was a stranger when we plunged back into the cacophony of the crowd.
The city is alive and we are fresh with the freedom of interlopers.