Who: Porn and open Where: Sweet Rosie's (ice cream parlor) When: Thursday morning
She could feel the sun sinking into her skin, heavy and golden, warming her muscles. The chatter of multiple language, the throaty coo of a handful of beggarous pigeons and the familiar chaos of traffic blended into a white noise that, if she tilted her head just so and was careful not to concentrate, sounded like the sea. Lola found herself lounging sideways in a metal lattice chair in the small area of sidewalk that had been cordoned off by the establishment, one leg slung carelessly over the chair's arm, a sandal-clad, turquoise nail-polished foot dangling in midair. Her head was tipped back slightly, butterscotch curls tumbling over her shoulders. The air - not yet boiling damply, but headed that way - smelled like flowers and garbage. Across the street, ripe fruit spilled across tables at the greengrocer's in a heady summer abundance. Down the block, a camera store owner was cussing out a shoplifter and an old Volvo coughed smoke.
New York. There was no place like it.
And weekday mornings were her favorite. Normal people were getting things done, accomplishing tasks and going to work. Lola had no such responsibilities. It left the city to the drifters, that discreet and amiable sect of people to which things like mortgages didn't apply. They were a disparate bunch - they could be unemployed, or trustfund babies, artists or just plain independents. For few precious hours, before the sun set the city sweltering, the city belonged to them. It was the closest you got to a lazy Sunday in a city this size.
She would go grocery shopping, she decided. She would go grocery shopping, and then to the library and then back to her apartment to make sure enough business people were bypassing their companies' content filters and watching naked people rub up against each other. Lola couldn't imagine working in a cubicle, punching numbers and taking customer service calls. She liked that she didn't have to answer to anyone, that her days were her own. It left her free to eat ice cream at ten o'clock in the morning. Rosie made it with sweet cream; Lola's waffle cone was still warm, and the white chocolate ice cream was ribboned with veins of fresh raspberry puree. It was delicious, which was why she came here at least twice a week. Also, when Lola licked things, people gaped, and it was funny to see how they covered it. Or walked into things. One or the other.
A casual sexuality hung around her, the sort that mortals were well-tuned to. She used her tongue on an envelope and fifteen men's heads exploded (also, six women questioned their sexuality) and she laughed. She was that kind of goddess. But on a day like today, with a faint breeze stirring leaves so that they traced circles on the pavement, Lola was feeling benevolent towards not just mankind but creation on a whole. She was in a supremely good mood.