Sweet Sticky

It’s almost summer in New York. Sound installation a few days ago. Willie Colon’s El Dia De Mi Suerte played on four different channels: two car stereos, one speaker strapped to a bicycle, one iPhone, all on Graham Avenue, La Avenida de Puerto Rico. A few years ago, we scoured las bodegas in search of pitorro during our parade pre-festivities.

I’ve already noticed a proliferation of furtive-yet-flirty glances in three boroughs. I was told last winter that I’m not good at making and sustaining prolonged eye contact.

Grateful social interactions are not subject to performance evaluations. Eye rubs more frequent, tear ducts working overtime, still reeling from tax season and environmental allergies. Antihistamines cause brain fog, and depression too. Any excuse to wear my baby pink sparkly Miu Mius will do.

Little do they know that in 2018, I locked eyes with a Hare Krisha in Union Square. Staring contest over. A polite refusal. They had the most beautiful blue eyes. Burlington Coat Factory as a backdrop. What does that place sell for Spring Summer? Hard times as of late, lost my orange Issey, missed Cro-Mags at the hardcore matinee.

Whenever I’m sick, Papi tells me to drink orange juice pero it has to be freshly squeezed, not pasteurized. Bueno pa’todo, las alergias, tan bien makes Singeli sound faster, hues more vibrant, even with the Mius Mius on.

Twombly loved citrus - lemons specifically. Sticky hands after eating that orange slice on East Broadway and misremembering The Godfather. All of New York will be sticky soon.