Standing near the window at dawn, in a strand of lilac light, he undressed. He sniffed his clothing before dropping each soiled and ratty garment—long-threaded sweat stains on a torn-up tank top—down to his murky socks. His hair was a thick and greasy mess of shimmery black that soared with some femininity, though I would never tell him that. He was a grubby thing I could only admire with my eyes; he had tied my hands and feet.
He finished his striptease, lit a cigarette, and turned to look out the immense square of a picture window. The view was pure Westside—twenty-seventh floor, ostentatious silver jutting, and wild circular peaks, things that never reflected the same light twice. Buildings that mingled and rose jauntily in the crowded city space of Manhattan.
He blended into its beau
