Peter at 32

2 am – the after
after party – and he’s down
in the Village
with a smile
and a corporate expense account, still dressed
in standard office-wear:
trousers and a Eurotrash
button-down;

“Darling!”
he says
to a girl in a
mini-skirt, air kisses
above
her cheeks, putting
a hand on her ass
and guiding her out to
a cab. He blanks on the directions to his loft
a moment – third

street to the left? – but the cabbie
has a GPS on the dash.
She will leave before
he wakes up,
and he, head pounding, will lie
back against the pillows
and clap.