I lifted my finger to the window and pressed it obnoxiously, challenging it to a duel of will. It, being a fucking piece of glass, had no will other than mine so, by default of living individual thought, I won the battle. My fingerprint represented my victory. In my accidental high I became paranoid that I would be framed for a crime whether it had been able committed or, the window be dislocated from this building and be re-embedded in the helm of another. This city, which I had only just arrived in, was wise to development. The fucks probably traded windows over, carrying them out at all hours, without coverlets or white gloves, like Americans but, rather, with small, understanding hands into the bed of a truck. The window, avoiding destruction meekly as it whips through rule-less streets toward a rick-rack apartment complex no locals could live in.
We were so high I could look down at the city’s cleavage and not have length enough to reach in for a feel. This city was not my lover, though. If I felt deep into the folds of skin which marked the press of weighted skin, ameliorated by fabric and lace, if I separated two fingers, the index and the middle, and slid my hand so that those of my fingers cupped the underside of her breast and the two, the index and the middle, pinched her nipple, this city would slap me but, not for her dignity, rather for me to compete with the one to whom I could cuckold.
I wouldn’t bother. She’d suck my dick better is she thought I didn’t give a fuck. I spied her rubble easily from above. I was so fucking high.
My birth day present was the gift to die.