goodlit

And she’s right, Kanye thinks. It’s been awhile since
anything. He tours, shoots videos, appears on late-night
shows. He can’t remember the last time they spent more than
a day or two together. He can’t remember the last time they
made love.
“What time is it in New York?” he says.
“Almost eight in the morning. I just finished my quinoa.”
He pictures the view from her loft in the Upper East Side:
the gray February sky. Blocks of high-rises like crooked spines.
Snow hard and black in the gutters. Far below, at 77th and
2nd, taxis and people in long coats and people on bicycles.
Kanye and Alexis had stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows
often, naked, unafraid. They were too far up for anyone to see
them. Even if someone had, it didn’t matter much. They were
beautiful, rich, living high above the city.
“Hope you don’t throw up your breakfast,” he says.
“Because of the picture and all.”
“Trying to get me flustered before work?” she says.
“Not intentionally.”
“Trust me. I’d rather be in Honolulu than about to hop on
the 6-train.”
“Alexis—”
“But back here,” she says, “in real life, the sun is already
up. Some people have real jobs. Why don’t you go ahead and
think about what I’d do to you if I was there?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’d do?” He holds his breath.
#GOODLitSwerveAutumn