The Perfume of Roses

A chance encounter

Sitting, looking down at $16 dollars worth of Rose-perfumed doughnuts, thinking, “why have i done this” and secretly already knowing the answer why, and the ancient one cutting up her creme brûlée- stuffed monstrosity leans over and says, ” i say, I rather like the music in here— good to read to,” and gestures at a copy of ” Merlin–The Magician,” while dubstep leaks heavily from the walls. I am then subjected to a story of her, Merle— for her name is Merle– and she is a Canadian dancer that has been living at the Chelsea Hotel for 30 years and tells me rather matter-of- factly that America is in its death throes and the tragedies that we allow to happen to our children are her evidence, and after reading me a poem she has written, she grabs my hand and looks out the window, and says, ” I would leave New York, but my creative mind has never been so free…” The gym rat next to us snorts, but I kind of know what she means, and I shoot the little treadmiller a look, which I regret when Merle asks my opinion on something as ” a Virgo in your early thirties.” I spit the donut right out


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