Fragments: "Intersection"

I have begun writing something that I've tentatively titled "Fragments" -- my current work-in-progress that blends memoir, fiction, prose, and poetry.

Below is the first excerpt from that work: "Intersection."


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We sit at the round table in the intimate windowed alcove, our faces warmed by steam rising from bowls of pho, laughing… glancing out at our bicycles, chained and propped against the diner wall.

Outside: a man sleeps, back propped against the bike rack, legs wedged between a parked Lexus and an SUV. Inside: we flirt with politics; you cough, self-conscious, when chili oil catches your throat.

The broth begins to cool. The sleeping man stirs then settles, neck bent awkwardly.

You rest your chopsticks on the table, push aside the plate with lime rinds and straggling bean sprouts, and cup my nervous hands in yours.

Again he stirs, chapped fingers in the pocket of his threadbare coat, searching, preparing: blackened spoon, bag of white crystals, rubber hose, lighter, syringe.

The petite waitress with her tenuous English brings the check. Politely, we both reach for it.

I struggle to avert my eyes as the white rocks melt on his spoon and he sinks the syringe in his vein.

We unchain our bikes as he staggers off, screaming his hatred for “Jews, fags, and the government.” You insist on escorting me home, so we ride together across the bridge, skirting decrepit projects on the Lower East Side, weaving between Chinatown and Little Italy, then heading West, toward the Village and the waterfront, past industrial sites and factories locked down for the night.

We stand at the door of my loft. Our heat radiates.

We kiss goodbye, cilantro on our lips.