I'm still in New York. I know, I know, I can't stay here
forever. I have that job and that mortgage on that suburban
house in that suburban yard full of suburban leaves that just keep
falling, falling, falling. But here I am, riding the subway,
hailing a taxi, buttoning my coat against the late autumn wind on
Central Park West. I've told you before, Wigleaf, if I could just
disappear from out there and focus on here. Here. I
saw her again this afternoon. She was coming out of Starbucks
at Broadway and 103rd. She wore a bright orange silk scarf
and desert camo fatigues. What can I do, Wigleaf? The six-foot blond angel
with the fuck-you-very-much androgynous glare
smiled at me today. She looked right at me, with those
searching wide eyes, and she smiled. You know me, Wigleaf; I
am invisible. I am a masquerade. A forty-year-old
woman in skater boy shoes. But every day I am here in New
York, I see the androgynous goddess of Broadway, and I am
heartened. I am in love.
What can I do, Wigleaf?
- - -
Read MLR's story, "On the Way to Death Valley."
w i g · l e a F