It was one of those nights that you know will not end, you know is not over.
You know at dinner when the wine is poured into belled, stemless glasses that tip from side to side as if they are on a pitched surface. You know at the bar because it is called the Zebra Bar. You know in the street because for once the street does not come after you. All the townhouses are sleeping or unfinished. All the cabs are full. You know you will get two hours of not-sleep and wake up horizontal across the hotel bed. Soon you will be in a taxi in jeans and a white T-shirt smeared with makeup, hair half curled and half straight, no underwear because you have none left. You leave the windows down because you don't care, you don't feel the wind. You keep thinking you are always in a taxi speeding to the airport, speeding away from somewhere, and most of this city is still sleeping, and why was it Wonderwall the bad pianist at the piano bar played? And will you always be in a taxi speeding, one hand on your red crocodile bag, one hand in your tangled hair, leaving this bright lovely city, thinking about walking back alone to your room. And still it is not over, that night. And still you will go on thinking about that wet street, the sound of your heels hitting pavement or carpet, and turning back to look. There is always a look back, but this time, there isn't.
And is it your fault this happened because it happened in your book? Did you write this into existence? Is it your fault for writing about a girl who loved?
