MoMA patrons
Smoke drifts in from the window. Carl sits with Monqiue on the fire escape. He offers her the cigarette. She waves it away; he puts it out. Sparks drift down to the street; the glow becomes ash. Inside the apartment, Carl remembers the scene. He screens it in his mind. He tries to remember the details—loose strands of hair encroaching onto her face, the feel of the night air on his face, scorched by the summer sun.

They had just returned from the beach. They had removed themselves from a party. They were talking or were silent, smoking a cigarette, together. He touches his hand to his forehead nad feels the coolness of his fingertips, wet from condensation. On the table, an ice cube melts into his drink. He shifts his weight and turns off the light. He gest up in the dark to go to bed. It feels like his birthday. He feels old.