Two suns.

The Blue Hit came to New York last night and I went to see them at The Living Room in the Lower East Side. Grace, the singer, lulled me, her voice seduced me into a hypnotic nostalgia about Austin. What followed was satisfying and interesting conversations that carried until outside my door in the Upper West Side where I said goodbye and  to my friend and then declined a man's offer (at 3:30am) to buy a snickers bar from his briefcase.

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I had high, frantic, selfish sex on Monday. My friend asked, or assumed, if it had been desperate. I don't see how I can describe something as frantic and selfish without it too being desperate, but somehow that word has more negative baggage. The sex wasn't negative to me. I feel like I haven't had much of an opinion or stance on the previous sex I've had with this person until this evening. And I found myself more exclusively wrapped up in what made me feel good more than anything else. I still haven't orgasmed, but this doesn't mean that I leave sex unsatisfied.

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I was babysitting a girl this week. In the basement playroom of the building, she was coloring with three other girls. They were all drawing similar pictures, the younger girls mimicking the older ones, except for the youngest girl of all. She was oblivious to this big sister cycle. She drew two suns in her picture and giggled about it, pointing out how silly it was. One of the older girls looked at the picture and said that it was beautiful, and that it wasn't silly at all. In a reflection off water, there is always a second sun.