Member-only story
I’m on a Citibike, headed downtown, from my apartment on 22nd Street. I’m not wearing a helmet, it’s hot outside, I’m sweating, the sidewalks are choked with tourists, people are spilling into the bikelanes.
I can feel the sweat pooling underneath my seat, between my asshole and my testicles; I want to itch but I can’t — I keep readjusting myself in my seat.
I swerve slightly to avoid a skateboarder in a business suit.
I have earbuds in. I’m listening to Dirty Projectors. The song is called “Two Doves.” Malik introduced me to the song. I like it a lot.
The city speaks in present-tense.
It is one long continuous of time splayed over the fabric of space.
Bergson.
I can smell the boiling garbage piled up on street corners.
16th st, 15th street, crossing the barrier of 14th into the west village…
Flares of light: dreamlike and real.
A sheath of strange, pointless beauty.
The intense feeling that I’m going to die.
Serve to the left of a UPS guy getting out of his idling truck.
Turn left onto 12th, then right again onto 7th avenue. Yoga moms, business dads on their day off, strollers, joggers, tourists, students, homeless.
I should stop and get a greenjuice. It’s so hot.
I’m not paying attention, I almost run into someone hailing a cab.
I swerve, again, this time sharply, hit the sidewalk, fly from my seat.
Plaff!
