B and S walk ahead, their coupling makes me wistful, here I am holding petite and two dimensional Nancy Cunard in my arms. Why is it always creepingly cold in Chicago? I trip on the debris of some homeless man. I have to go back home but not study Sanskrit tonight. I am too ill to drink. I puff tiredly on the cigarette.
I fancy something more exciting, it seems like the fun seeped out of me when I left Oxford and the spires of eternal loneliness. There's a repulsive charm to solitude, but this rule does not hold in Chicago. I miss the boy, and his snickering self assurance. I miss something else, but I don't know what. It keeps raining, and a man plays the drums on Michigan Avenue. S dances on the pavement, a strange flexible and funny jig, his red hair rendered clammy and cold by the December rain. B smiles at him, he is in love, it is the smile of love that B gives. B is my lovely Viking in love, my little Ohio Viking.
Somewhere during the afternoon of Grecian urns and high Impressionism, my lipstick rubbed off, my eyeliner disappeared. B and S and their friend proceed to a bluesy night. But could I go through a night of aching blues?
All that was left of the evening was a persistent gnawing feeling in the stomach.
I had a burrito and came home.