Billie
I was going to one of those parties that you go to on the chance of meeting a woman. I didn’t expect to know anybody except the guy I was going there with, someone I knew from work who knew somebody who knew somebody. It was in a photographer’s studio down on West Fourteenth Street, in the meatpacking district. On a hot summer Saturday night, the street was dark and deserted.
Somewhere above us, rock music was thundering through open windows. Kenny, the guy from my office, found an intercom next to a large gray metal door. He pressed a button and we heard a buzzer sound.
We went up three long, steep flights of stairs, passing doors with names like LUCKY RENDERING and BUCCI FORKS and WEISS PRODUCE ENTERPRISES.
The door on the fourth floor said TOMPKINS PHOTOGRAPHY. You could hea
