by Ben Latini
8 cigarettes later and I’m on the roof with the wind and rain making an untended garden out of my hair; it’s ragged and a bit overgrown, clinging to it is a light mist and a late fall chill. There’s a girl next to me shaking like the tambourine in a Christian rock song, with 1940s ruby red on her lips, pulling her jacket’s collar up against the cold. I’m a romantic poet of the new world, with my shit scrawled on cocktail napkins, from the red chairs by the window in the Laundromat on one of the high-rent streets: 8 page odes to pollution enhanced sunsets, skyscrapers take the place of trees. I don’t want this girl’s number, and I don’t want to see her again. I want to grab her and kiss her, but I know I’d do it more aggressive than I should and, besides, she‘s a little drunk. So I’ll let this one go, and I’ll move off, into the night with the one Fellini film I actually managed to sit through bouncing around in my head.
Ben Latini, author of On Possibilities, is a college freshman in central New York. He has previously lived in Massachusetts and been the de facto editor of two publications. He plays a mean (if unrefined) guitar, and is going to start writing a novel (probably) soon. His blog is here.