Sylvie, in her boat-neck sailor stripe blouse, pale polished suit, heels, pushed the sunglasses down from the top of her head when the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. A woman in a t-shirt and leggings got on, and the elevator went the rest of the way down.

It was quiet for the hour, just before 7:30 on a hectic morning. With traffic, Sylvie thought, she should have plenty of time to drive to her office out of the city. And she would be driving out of the traffic. And then, and then? Oh, just making it through today was the first step.

Sylvie walked past the lobby, not bothering to check out. She had left the key in the room, as she planned to avoid the same faces she had seen the day before. But now she recognized no one. Trays rolled past from the restaurant–the cling of glasses, the bustling kitchen voices , the scent of coffee elevating Sylvie’s mood, the hum of purpose she had chosen.

The morning was cool, damp in the garage as she started her car and eased out onto the empty streets. So strange, it seemed, as she turned toward the expressway, switching on the radio.

“It’s a beautiful Saturday morning.”

Sylvie pulled off to the side of the road, checking her calendar. Yes, yes, it really was the weekend already. Jean-Paul had said he was leaving Friday evening. And the city was still empty so early. In a flash, Sylvie turned the car back to the hotel, yes, she could keep her room tonight, and tomorrow. The city, and the morning, were hers. She picked up her suitcase, and headed upstairs to change.

Jeans, the boatneck, boots, the white raincoat pulled tight. Yes, this was it, she thought, as she happily rode back down and sat in the bar for coffee, the news. It felt so luxurious, the sun, coffee, a new lens, and time.


When I was walking downtown, I thought perhaps I might find you here somewhere, waiting.

I thought I might look over when I heard a whistle, or a call, and see you there, leaning against a column, you my filthy fantasy, you here.

I think of this, of you in a doorway, of me here with you, of public displays of affection, public displays of lust, played out here on the wet streets, the streets after rainfall, puddles, the streets in the rain, people running, thinking us fools to stay in it but not surprised, not glancing close enough to notice your hand pushing my skirt up the side of my leg, your hand wandering, wandering to seek shelter, or delight, the wet heat you have created.

I think of you, your cock pressed hard up against my leg, my hand now wandering to explore, to wonder in the ever increasing size, I wonder if I unzip your trousers if your cock will grow like a beanstalk, your desire growing tall enough for me to climb up into the sky with the skyscrapers that pretend to protect us even as it rains on a summer night in the city.

I wonder if we climb high above the clouds, the rain, if the world is so big, so bountiful there, if there really are giants, if I slide back down, ecstatic in my fear, my thrill in the places you take me now, here, on a city street, right here, in a doorway where any giant might see, where any giant might stop us if he glanced, if he saw my legs wrapped tight around your hips, if he saw you push me up against a wall, if he saw you push your hips into me, push my head hard into your shoulder just when I want to cry out, just when your words push me beyond the limits of the buildings and the city streets and the sky itself. How can this be discreet? But you promise me it is, it is, as your raincoat shields our indecencies, as you whisper naughty things, sweet things, nothings that I cannot remember except for their tone, their taste, the raindrops that hit my forehead and roll down my face, tickling me as you rock me gently now, easing me back into the doorway, the sidewalk, my legs now nearly incapable of walking without you holding me up, and you do, you do wrap a hand around my waist and draw up your raincoat, hold out an umbrella to protect me, and walk with me through the city streets, onward, onward, into the fog, into the night.