I think it’s best we part ways, I say. A cab stops. I get in, slam shut, don’t wave goodbye, stare straight ahead.

Can we talk, at least, before you go? you say but I don’t, won’t answer. You can talk to yourself all you want when you get back to Brooklyn. I don’t care. Hell, you have two hands and an imagination plus the internet connection you steal from your landlord two floors down. Cheap motherfucker. You can do all the talking you want till you jerk yourself dead. I love you, you say.

CENTRAL PARK BY ETKIN CAMOGLU 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 30

We meet my mother at her suite in the Hotel Wales. The French windows are open onto Madison and let in the roar of buses and the sound of an ice cream truck stuck on the corner. It’s hot enough to wear very little, like I like, like you like to see me like. White short-shorts and a salmon peach wrap-around, strapless, with thick sections to tie into a big bow in the back and show off shoulder blades. My mother sits across from us and watches. You massage my shoulder and sip the chilled vino verde you brought with thought of your own want. What a gentlem…