In a taxi just north of 10th street she leans against me, Chloe, her tousled hair like waterfalls on my shoulder. "What if we'd go somewhere" she says, "anywhere but here". She smells of Allure Sensuelle and malt whiskey, her body draped in velvet and silk. Minutes earlier we laughed together on the asphalt, in the back seat it's all quiet and forgotten, city lights dance around the car like fireflies.
"I saw him" she says. "Who?" "My father, here in New York", and everything suddenly makes sense in our alcoholic intoxication, the way she's been acting. I tell the driver to keep going, we pass Penn Station and exit from Manhattan through Lincoln Tunnel. It never really gets dark in the city, only in our minds.
She falls asleep somewhere along the river, her silent breaths and the sound of the engine keeps me awake. I remember nights like this and the fires.