Missing

April begins with a sad gray sky, when I wake up around 9 mother has already gone out and left the door to the balcony open. I step out into the morning air wearing just the hip long loose fitting T-shirt I slept in (not an Abercrombie & Fitch), the feeling is close to sensual; rough unpolished stone under my feet and a coolish breeze stroking my bare thighs with every little breath.

I think back to late summer nights in LA, Chloe and me on the roof of our house, wearing our sheerest nightclothes and reciting articles from Vogue Italia like bedtime stories to the best of our linguistic knowledge. She does it perfectly of course, leaning casually against the railing like a model, the folded magazine in one hand and the other lost somewhere in her flowing chestnut hair. When she rolls her tongue around the foreign words it sounds just like music.

Later: the afternoon air in Central Park smells of wet soil and anticipation. I wish she was here to hold my hand through the rainfall.