I coughed, flicked away the cigarette butt and looked to my side to inquire on the whereabouts of the Diet Coke, only to find that Anise had flown. I didn't even notice when she left, but I found out later she just went to chat with some bloke who had caught her fancy. I couldn't believe how easy it was for her; she was so open and innocently flirtatious. I truly envied her for it. More than once I had been labeled a cold-hearted bitch, which I would be much more offended by if it weren't true. For some reason I couldn't seem to find a setting between coldly disinterested and ridiculously randy. I blame my mother. I don't really, but it's such a knee-jerk reaction to say that.

I finally found my Diet Coke in its black plastic bag under Anise's chair. Having given up most of my vices I found myself analyzing my last few habits more deeply than they probably merited. Life is a series of cigarettes. Cigarettes make you thirsty and dry out your lips so that chapstick and Diet Coke are absolute necessities for the nouveau bohemian artist. I heard sirens closing in from the West and heading our way. I decided to wait until they all passed before resuming my writing, but much to my chagrin they stopped less than a block away and continued to screech while some authority figures poked a homeless person who was lying under a tree. I watched for a few moments along with everyone else to see if anything interesting would immediately unfold. But I was again disappointed, they just kept poking him like a bunch of kids who had found a jellyfish beached on the shore. So I packed up my things and decided that if anything interesting were to unfold, I could watch it comfortably through the windows of the café.

Once I resettled, I continued watching the less than riveting drama from my indoor seat, away from the nasty little sirens. I could see that the authority figures were now poking in shifts while trying to chase away all the tourists that had now swarmed with their cameras in hand. Fuck a duck, why can't Kodak make a realistic commercial and show a bunch of tourists desperate to capture someone else's suffering on celluloid. Ben told me that one of the main themes for his first novel would be his character's desperate attempt to figure out women. I asked him if he really thought women were that complicated and he looked at me as though I just suggested we rape pigeons in the downtown park. I laughed then and I laughed again when I remembered it. The truth is, women aren't complicated; people are complicated. Male, female or anything in between, we're all fucked, just in different ways. It had a symmetry that I found very attractive.

I tried writing again but was almost immediately distracted by the woman at the table behind me. She had an accent that made her roll her Rs as though she were drowning and I couldn't help but eavesdrop on her conversation. She was talking to someone about her admiration for Chopin - did she mean the writer or the composer? Before I could figure it out, I heard a rude click sound under my seat and I realized I dropped my pen. I picked it up and twirled in my fingers like I used to back in high school while trying my best to ignore my teacher as much as possible. Just another classic example of a phallic symbol thrust into our daily lives, right? I chuckled to myself as I replayed that conversation in my head; one of our many conversations. We teased each other then, comfortably, familiarly - like we were old friends instead of something so new it didn't have a name yet. Ben would say something misogynistic just to get a rise out of me. Then he'd tease me for being a feminist and I would tease him for being a prick. A pen is phallic, I suppose. But that would mean that an inkwell is Sapphic, right? You need both of them to write. Even now, with our modern improvements putting them both in the same instrument, you still need them both.

With that, I stopped fucking around and settled down to some serious writing. I was going strong for maybe an hour or so, so intent was I, in fact, I didn't even notice that Eric was waltzing around me, trying to subtly catch my attention until he got impatient and playfully bumped into my chair. He sat down and apologized for being such a jerk the night before. I honestly couldn't remember what he had done, so I apologized for being such a bitch, then we shook hands and forgave each other for an incident I'm pretty sure never occurred, but hell, it always feels good to make up with a friend.

I liked Eric from the moment we met. It was a kick walking down the street with him; he cut a formidable figure. He was tall, dark, bald, at least 200 pounds and had done a fair amount of time. But once you look at those pretty, laughing eyes of his, he just reminded you of a big, happy black Buddha. Eric was one of the many who labeled me a cold-hearted bitch. I'd tell him to fuck off and then pretend to be offended, but I couldn't be. The way his tongue curled around the words, it sounds like a compliment or an endearing pet name. Anise returned and thankfully whisked Eric away, probably plying him for some libations from the golden sign glowing in the distance. All together I think we were worth about $2.75, but for Anise, Eric could always somehow find a way to procure a six-pack, a bottle of wine or any other luxuries she may desire.

A short while later I heard a soft clink on my table and looked up to see a small sweating bottle of vodka winking at me. Anise had managed to procure some libations after all and as always was more than happy to share the wealth. She winked at me and said she would leave me to my own devices and followed Eric back outside. Rilke said that love was protecting one another's solitude - any artist can appreciate that. While I wasn't much of a drinker, except for wine, which I saw more as grape juice with ambition, I was touched by the gesture and was more than happy to get buzzed on Anise's kindness. I took a sip and remembered the last time a had a drink was back in March for Jack's birthday, when we must have hit every gay bar in West Hollywood. at least all the ones that served watermelon martinis. But the last time I tasted alcohol on my lips was slightly more recent.

Ben wasn't sober the first night he kissed me. Neither was I, even though it had been months since my last drink. He came over and seemed so intent on getting as drunk as he could as quickly as possible, he probably had the intention of kissing me that night when he first walked through my door with his own little purchase from the golden sign in hand. We were talking while relaxing on my couch, or I was talking while he nervously sipped his vodka and whatever, when suddenly he placed his fingertips gently on my chin, turned my face towards him and kissed me. Is that okay? He asked in a quiet little voice while looking at me nervously. That was the first night I laughed against his lips. He ended up falling asleep on the couch with his arms still around me, his head back and mouth wide open. My laughter woke him.

Maybe Ben left because I laughed too much. That's a bit of a misnomer actually, he didn't leave - he simply stopped coming back - I always took it for granted each time he did. When I finally realized he wasn't coming back this time, I immediately lost his phone number and forgot where he lived. I avoided him as much as he avoided me. I couldn't seek him out, no matter how much I wanted to. It hurt, but the pain was too good. I ached and I damned myself for not savoring every word, but I could write. To be satisfied so simply is a fucking blessing, much more than all the turtle doves, sunsets, rainbows, kittens, coffee-flavored kisses, menthol cigarettes, picket fences, smiling children, laughing babies, love sonnets, and rosebuds in the world.

11pm hit and the café began to close around me. I had several pages and innumerable napkins filled, the bottle on my table was half-empty and so was I. With Anise's arms wrapped around my waist I somehow ended up back at our apartment. After scrounging around for any leftover scraps of food, I collapsed on the couch, defeated and realizing once again why the ants moved out in a huff. I began writing once more - just another addiction, really. After a spell I dropped my pen as I felt the familiar creeping of claustrophobia close in. I stepped outside to chase away the crushing sensation in my chest with a lungful of smoke. I walked out onto the side of the building next to the dumpsters and sat underneath the fire escape. Shit, it was a chilly night. It was the first time I had shivered in three months.

I smoked while thinking of absolutely nothing when I looked down and saw a white light flickering above the middle of my chest. It caught my breath and I watched it dance over my heart for a moment. Bewildered I looked up to see a car turning a corner in front of the building, its headlight peeking through the gate. I laughed at myself as the light wavered and disappeared along with the car. What the hell did I think it was? Fucking cars, I wouldn't get any peace down here. I flicked away my spent cigarette and climbed up the fire escape to the top, the fourth floor. I leaned against the metal railing and lit a new cigarette while the wind beat around me, blowing my hair in my face which in turn was singed by my lighter. I didn't care though; I couldn't let the light go out. I breathed deep and sucked as much in as I could, then I held it until I broke into a fit of coughing. I wanted my chest to burn from the inside, but it wouldn't.

I sat down on the floor of the fire escape - I thought about how it was a bit of an ironic place to claim as your refuge for smoking. I took a slow drag and blew the smoke through the horizontal metal bars in front of me. I'd give up cigarettes forever, even lights, for one more of our conversations. Just to talk about anything, like we did when he was still, simply, my friend Ben. We would probably discuss literature, knowing us. Perhaps Flaubert or Woolf or Falkner or Miller (apparently a friend had once told him his writing style was reminiscent of Henry Miller; I made a point of never reading any of Ben's writing just in case it wasn't true). No, Rilke, we would discuss Rilke. I like him, truly, he was passionate and romantic, just like -

Shit! My cigarette burned down too low and singed my fingertips. I crushed it on the metal below me and lit up another. More wind, more singed hair - I'm beginning to smell a lot like a beauty salon.

Ben was a romantic. He didn't like to show it but he was one, no doubt, to his very core. I remember us riding the subway together one day, an eternity ago; I was trying to explain the plot of Mrs. Dalloway to him, especially the relationship between the title character and her past love interest. I was reading him a quote, shit, what was it? They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort. After I read the line to him I watched as he gave me one of those knowing little looks of his that I could always see coming from a mile away. I remember hearing him gush over Madame Bovary and the romance of unrequited love. Good Lord was he ever a romantic. I was too, but it was a secret I didn't even tell myself. I could easily see Ben doing something heroic and incredibly stupid in the name of love. He was one of the guys who would give up anything for true love. I would give up anything for freedom. In a perfect world, we could both be right.

To Be Continued.

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