There are so many things you remember when looking out the window. He asks me if I'm all right and I say that I am. We shake hands. He gives me a four-piece pseudonym. Because he's not wearing his makeup I dub him a he. He slips something pink with his glass of red. Thinking of Shelby I dub him Georgette.

Above the corner of the living room the BQE maternally rubs the ceiling to sleep with its rumble. A florescent cow hangs from the ceiling. The walls are turquoise. Or pink. I was never too good with colors. The cow has tits that expand and contract. They change colors too.

Georgette fumbles through a youtube selection. A break in the music and depeche mode fills the room.

"No more eighties," Cassie yelps from the couch, her chin a paperweight over the tops of her blouse. Cassie is a literary critic, the true and clear mind of this apartment, the master of rubricked creativity. "Earl!" she yells.

Earl is in the bedroom. In Georgette's room, to be precise. There is a bed and a moat of socks and scraps about six inches wide around it. There isn't much else. Earl is on the bed in an evening gown putting on lipstick.

He snaps something back with a voice of a mechanic. A few fucking minutes. OK?

OK.

We wait.

Georgette snugs next to me on the couch. I readjust myself slightly. Valium is really best for shopping, he tells me. But you have to know what you want. Every time I go, I feel like a conductor, he tells me. He swings his arms masterfully.

"And then cheese, then bread, then that awful dip," he explains. Somewhere in the background Psycho Killer comes on. Heads talk. He bobs his head. He has a ring of keys around his neck. They swing left. They swing right.

"But if you don't make a list, you will just swipe everything," he tells me. "And then you'll just be like - god, what are these things doing here?"

He continues talking. His British accent is beautiful. He tells me of the local bands in Brighton. I don't listen.

Outside of the window the grey popped like popcorn. Since sundown it held together. Then it snapped. Flakes fall. Suddenly there is no end to them. They put me in a reflective mood. My mind thinks of everything.

Earl paces out. He has thin legs and the heels work. The dress doesn't. Everybody stays quiet. Slowly, bodies begin to lift themselves up. We shuffle down the stairs soldier-like. No words are wasted. Earl opens the door. We step back into the factory of cold. Steel beams. Warehouses. Not a tree in sight. Earl balances himself down the stoop stairs.

Simona waits for us at the curb. Simona is a Ford Focus whose doors look like they've been kissed by a rhino. Earl opens the driver door, slides in and reaches around the cabin to unlock the other ones. Cassie and Georgette stand near their respective places.

"Well?" Cassie looks at me.

"You really should come," Georgette adds politely. He is standing by the passenger door, leaning his torso out, hugging the sides of his face with his red curls. He really does pull it off better than the other two, even without the makeup.

I stand and I look at them. It's cold, unbearably cold. Flakes have turned hard and they slap the back of my neck. In an hour we will pick up Cassie's girlfriend. Her voice will be deeper than mine, I remember that. We will go to a warm nook in Brooklyn where we will watch boys dance the dance of not being boys. Then back to Simona. Then to the Pacific. Twenty minutes ago they figured it all out.

I stand and I look at them. What does one do? Conscious attempts to not_run from yourself only seem to make your feet move faster. What does one pack? What does one pack when making a miniature mess of life? A toothbrush? Dreams that you can always see when you close your eyes? Things that you stubbornly continue to believe in?

My feet don't move. Behind Simona the BQE sloshes passively. Three men appear from around the corner. Their eyes focus on us with the intensity of forest animals. They quickly disappear into a cellar.

"Well?!" Cassie nods and shakes her head. She twitches at her nose ring.

I stand. For once, despite anything, perhaps because of everything, this is suddenly one city I do not want to flee from.

I close my eyes. I feel the flakes ring over my lids. Swaying, I keep them closed.

If only for a little bit.