jada
And I am standing on top of the Hollymont Apartment building squinting across the mottled rooftops toward the Griffith Observatory. According to local legend John Lennon kept rooms here during his brief separation from Yoko Ono, but I’m not up here looking for his ghost or anything, I’m looking for my sunglasses which probably fell out here last night while I was going down on Jada. She’d had one wicked leg splayed recklessly up on the parkment and there was a sound like a cue in blue table chalk from the way her stiletto had dug into the plaster. Her dress had whipped the rungs as we climbed the fire escape, snapped taught like a flag by these lean Santa Anas - an explicit needle’s eye.
Our hands must’ve got sooted black from the old iron rungs, decades of nesting pollutants borne here on the air, and we were smoking cigarettes, I think, which we never did, and that was why I woke up with black fingerprint constellations on my neck and throat, and my mouth like college with the yellow no taste of smoke - the roaring salty savor of pussy in the summer.
But so I am watching the cars march down Vermont Avenue knowing that in 20 minutes I’ll be down there at the bus stop, waiting with that rot-gut feeling that today, uniquely because I am fighting a hangover the bus will not decide to come. I decide I need a break very badly, but I can’t call out. What I need is a holiday, like Labor Day, which was last weekend, and I guess that makes this the last week of summer. I find the spot where Jada’s heel bored the plaster, I stick my finger into the resulting wormhole. Fuck, I really liked those sunglasses.
