(For Kay, who wanted me to post a review of my cry-fest locales in NYC, as they say you’re not a real New Yorker until you’ve cried in public here).
The other day, I walked by a coffee shop in my neighborhood, in which I had cried my eyes out some time ago before going to a day-time orgy. I had buried my face in his chest, trying to avoid eye contact with strangers, but of course they noticed, and either tried to look at what was happening out of the corner of their eyes or to avert their gazes uncomfortably. I didn’t say many words at the time, or at least not many coherent ones. I didn’t need to. He knew what had happened. Continue reading