I look behind, over padded shoulders and three decades go by. Cadillacs idle their engines impatiently at a funeral on Mulberry Street. With cops all over leaning on kids, I avoid committing minor offenses. I hold back spitting in the subway and slip quarters in the meters. He won't finger me.
Love is dead, murdered.
I did it with premeditation. Desire still bursts through my brain like a diver rising after a plunge from a high board. Every block I get closer to Chinatown makes her attraction stronger. I get stuck like a fly on yellow stickum twisting from the ceiling of a noodle shop. In the distance I see a rickshaw.