The sight of the doorman and I swaggering through the West Village dressed in full leather before sundown must really be something. We gather the attention of more than a few of our flannel shirted, button-flied brothers craning their necks and lowering their mirrored sunglasses to have a closer inspection. He smiles at me swollen with pride. He pulls a pretend punch on me that lands as softly as the hazy yellow, late autumn sunlight on my kisser. He curls his bicep and mouths the words, "Hi Baby," as he grasps my hand firmly and pulls me close beside him. "He’s with me," he announces to the neighborhood as we promenade down Hudson Street.
I nab a peach from an outdoor bodega just because I can, and hand it off to a homeless man who"s realized temporary digs outside the Garden of St. Luke
