Italian isn't always a good bet. So complex and savoury, but it sits heavy in the stomach, and the wine sours. I recommend the fresh sushi sampler, and then a stiff drink to cleanse the palate. Kisses go well with the taste of Absinthe and tears and when your breath freezes in the air and hangs from my forehead like a veil shining in the light of passing taxicabs. Once we wandered through gates of smoke and salt. Your hair is so long now, I said. And so red. I remembered when it was almost too short to hook between my fingers as I would pull back your head and clasp my mouth to the pulse of your neck. Later you shaved your head and left me no grasp. Your skin is still nearly translucent, though it was never possible to see through you. Wearing black boots with three inch heels, you seemed aloof as Michaelangelo, examining some photograph in a gallery, scratching down technical notes and ideas, your sideways brain probing all that crossed your path. The gods must have read the constant sigil of my unsettled intent, and laughed darkly, for there you were, your cheek against my neck. You told me a secret, and I could feel your tears on my shoulder, seeping into the fabric of my shirt. I felt guilty for being happy that I was holding you in my arms again. Soon, or much later, we realized we had been deserted by our companions. I wanted to make a toast to friendship, but the drink was bitter. It's easier to just sit with you and hold your hand, fingers so long and delicate against the slab of my palm. The music crackles; the DJ scratches, skips a beat, and moves on.