MacDougal

It felt like Europe down on MacDougal Street.

No, rather oddly, it felt like a stylized set for A Streetcar Named Desire. The street was so narrow and the opposing apartment buildings were attempting to steal kisses from each other: leaning either in poverty or sexual necessity. It was balmy and she could almost see Blanche crawling onto to the fire escape and wiping her brow. Or Stanley Kowalski approaching her from the pub across the street. If only Stanley Kowalski were approaching her from the pub across the street...

"It looks like so much fun in there," she accidentally said out loud.

Didn't matter. No one was listening. She sang to herself as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

"What ya got got got to lose..."

The breeze ruffled her skirt, exposing two skinny, stockinged legs.

Anne dreamed another dream with her eyes open.

Dry grass itched into the exposed bit on the small of his back. He didn't mind. It was one of his favorite feelings. It meant that it was warm enough to sprawl outside under a blanket of sun. A knee had displaced his hat so that it fell at a loose angle across his forehead. Suddenly, it was her knee that his head rested upon. And she swept off his hat. Linking her hands under his chin, she blocked the sun and kissed him upside down.

"Well, hello."

She traced the line from the top of his forehead down his nose to his lips. And there her fingers took a right turn to the edge of his mouth. Where she lifted them and kissed where they had been.

"Anne!" A couple of sticky menus were thrust into her hands.

Right, she was fishing for customers. Fishing, fishing, fishing.... ugh, accidental eye contact with an unsavory man. She frowned and flattened her bangs with her palm.

The illustrious King of the Kebab Carving (donning his customarily bizarre hat) placed his massive hands on the windowsill and hollered across the street to a trash vendor (Doner $5.50.) Three Irish men poured from the adjacent pub and lit cigarettes. The sky was a false pink and purple technicolor.