Our girl is always ready for a party.

When she wakes from her beauty nap the streetlamps have caught the corner of her bedroom window and she hears her roommates’ laughter bubble down the long hallway just outside her door.

Octavia is the loudest of the bunch with a chortle that from anyone else would clear the room. She is the fridge that displays all of them, magnets, and they can’t resist her pull. She’d probably had her way with each of them, Tracey, Miko, and our girl, by the third or fourth week of their rooming situation. It was our girl’s first venture into the taboo, and it would not be her last. It’s hard to say whether it was the cause of future events, or if it was simply the first step towards her inevitable path.

Miko doesn’t understand how our girl’s hair can be so damned fab even after a nap. Miko is half Japanese and half some Slavic land of tall, gorgeous women with light eyes, deep thoughts, and stringy hair. She’s pissy about having to do so much resuscitation on it hour by hour. Our girl takes a moment to bask in her Semitic advantage.

She grabs a church key from the formica counter and a Rheingold from the fridge and brings them to union. She climbs out the kitchen window to the fire escape and up to the roof, careful not to catch her bloomers on the rusty rails. It’s a slow dusk and the East Village is still kind of quiet. The junkheads have not quite slept off their morning fixes so the fuzz aren’t buzzing around just yet. The street lamps and traffic lights across east 7^th street hold strong against the fiery pink of the sun having its last go at the west side of the city. It’s as if they are the only thing stopping Manhattan from drowning in the fading glow.

Our girl drains the last of her Rheingold and lets out a belch, pursued by a few proud giggles. She feels the electricity all around her expand, surging in through her fingertips, up to top of her head, down, and out through her toes. She buzzes, and she is ready to embrace whatever shock the approaching night holds in store.