(Ablative: one of seven Latin noun cases, each marking a syntactic role in a sentence) *Ablative of Place Where: Answers the question “where?” i.e. In portu navigo. I am sailing in the harbor.
I have written two important fiction pieces at the Starbucks on 83rd and Broadway. I don’t even like that Starbucks, it tends to be overcrowded at weird times and the back of the store smells a bit too much like pee for my taste.
Anyway, I wrote this audibly (read: talking to myself) this morning while wandering around the apartment, and glued it together here at my table in the back of the public space at the Lincoln Center atrium.
(Hipstamatic example. Photo by Matthew Gray Gubler)
(The picture is square and black and white, and on the bottom, it says “Hipstamatic.” We called it “Hipster-matic,” delighted and ashamed at how true it was.)
Her arm is thrown across your waist, as though it belongs there, and looking at it, I remember the warm solidity of your torso. Her face is hidden against your shirt. She’s wearing a coat with a furry hood that reminds me of sixth grade, when we’d all wear our coats indoors, slouching off our shoulders, the sleeves pulled over our hands. It was nonsensical, and yet, I did it every single day.
You have one arm over her shoulders and you’re holding a bowl with a spoon in it, and looking at the camera.This multitasking, eating or painting or reading while showing physical affection, it is so vintage you. Your hair is squashed and your face has collected a few days worth of scruff. You’re wearing the glasses we found at the yard sale in Santa Monica, the ones with the black pieces on the top that make you look like a surprised owl, which is in retrospect, probably what you were going for.
The picture fills me with a sadness so tactile that it’s as though it’s another limb, the image stained onto me like a suspicious birthmark, and it’s my fault, of course, because I looked.