The door clicks shut and there is silence.
Helicopter blades chopping through the night air, thick varnished leaves squeaking against the brick wall, and the rustle of rough bristled curtains.
This is the first moment in three weeks. Exhale. Feel the breath tunnel through your pursed lips and find joy in your puffed, hot cheeks. Everything washing over you in a wave of yesterdays. A montage of faces smiling, singing, slurring, blurring into one. A myriad of places, of mountains and deserts, of boardwalks and sidewalks, and females with feathers.
Blink and you see computer screens and limousines and taxi cabs careening down tarmac, shrieking a blaring note that locals ignore.
Blink and starry skin is wrapped around your waist, and you grin with a FLASH and the moment is gone.
Wink at the next girl you see because you share in secret love the city that won’t sleep, just hurls you into tomorrow. Wave it hello and plunge back in.
Blink and yesterdays line up like ghostly spectres, fluttering and whispering and reminding you of their past lives.