The skateboard pulls up to me as if it were a dented Mustang, and out climbs a blonde.
“Hey,” he sniffs, “Got a cigarette?”
“Never,” I answer, and he nods.
“That’s okay. I just wanted an excuse to talk.”
I keep walking. He steps off his board. Without it we stand the same height, but I’m in four-inch Marcs.
“Scared?” he asks.
He wishes. It’s morning on 9th, and my heel could dent his neck in seconds. It would be fun to tell him so, but instead:
“Not at all.”
“Cool… Well my band just got a record deal and…”
And his face cracks at the forehead, the way the Grand Canyon does in dryness. It happens with people too, when they finally kick the heroin shaking their skin. I check his eyes for confirmation; black with blue pupils, a sureness.
“Are you out of rehab?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why the band got back together.”
“Are you sure? Because rolling up to some girl in the middle of the street…”
“Not drugs,” he pushes, “Just charisma. Come see us play? Someone needs to root for the drummer. It’s on August… wait.”
He reaches up and grabs my face and his hands are huge; cracked like his face but still. They graze my cheek and pull away.
“Eyelash,” he says and shows me his thumb, gigantic and streaked with my shadow. “You want the wish?”
“No,” I shrug, “It’s yours.”
Two hours later I look down at my iPod, and realize I don’t remember the name of his band.
[ALISON SUDOL - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]