Did you know that the mosquito
Manhattan, October. I've never thought about trash so much. Just hefty bags and hefty bags of the stuff. Eighteen I counted in a heap in front of Camelot's Coffee Shop. It smells like urine and dollar pizza slices. Like it should. Gabe's talking. We're walking pretty fast.
"Look, you don't love him. Trust me, I know love when I see it. Take a look for yourself. I swear you do not look remotely like love," Gabe says, balancing his umbrella over both our heads so that the opposite side of each of us is getting wet. "Let's make that light."
We make it, the same way we do all the lights. For the three days I've been here with Gabe, we've conquered every light New York city has to offer. For papaya shakes alone we walked four miles.
"Those two," he says about the guys cutting in front of us, "They're not. They were once, but it's gone. You can just tell by the way they wear their pants that they're on the way out."