There seemed nothing more pleasant than burning a cigarette down to the filter. The coffee was sour, it’s sugar too far dissolved. The bagel was burnt and soggy from sitting in its butter for too long. Even the air that huddled under the awning of the café was stale and unappealing. The hot sun and constant cars of the New York summer made the breeze eddy and pause. The whole city seemed to disjoint and spin, crossing back on itself like an unsteady memory. Summer time is the killing season. The stoops are clogged with potbellied children.
And after an endless night of hitting on passing girls and boys, gulping expensive drinks and champagne, crawling through classy bars and some less classy bars, fighting punk rockers with hoops in their stretched out ears and falling haggard into the earliest open place, there seemed nothing more pleasant than pausing and burning a cigarette down to the filter.