When the plane landed in New York there were 40 degrees. The twin towers shimmered in the distance like a mirage in the air that rose from the asphalt hot springs. A friend of a friend named Michael was home to him in his house, a very nice apartment on the third floor at the feet of a building on 52nd street fearfully inclined, at the intersection with 1st Avenue. The guest room was small but cozy, with worn wooden floors and a beautiful fireplace in disuse where the boy put his suitcase because there was no closet. But the bed was ok and the window light, though he was stuck and not opened at least a century. Michael worked in a gallery in Chelsea. Came home late and fell asleep fully clothed on the bed that never changed. The alarm sounded at eight precise and often gave only a flushed face and comes back to the office wearing the same clothes. He had a "fuck-buddy" of which he was madly in love that he called in the middle of the night to have sex. He got up immediately, be sure to still a bit 'of cocaine in the bag and reached by taxi.
The sitting room was the only room in the house clean and decent with two armchairs and a sofa deco of modernism with the upholstery ripped-Michael's cat had recently died-and large prints of famous and emerging photographers framed in modern frame of brushed steel. Above the fireplace - perfect working order as to make it clear that he wanted Michael to the boy when he pointed out, there was a black and white photo of one meter by one meter, which soon made him think of Luke. Showed the neck of a man who had just shaved, marked by a long trail of blood that started under the chin and dripped on the collar of his shirt spotless. The kitchen was the kingdom of cockroaches. The boy did literally sucks. When he got up at night sweating to drink a glass of cold water, warned them before turning on the light of the living room, so give them time to hide again behind the fridge. Never came into the kitchen to eat. When the light of sun became unbearable, there were no curtains at the window it was a shower and was thrown to the discovery of the Big Apple. First we went to breakfast. He sat at the table of the first open-air bar where there was a handsome and openly gay waiter waiting for him. He ordered pancakes with maple syrup and coffee, and enjoyed the sight of people passing by. His favorite was the bar in front of David Burton's Gym in Chelsea, the gayest gym in the neighborhood of the crossbow of gay New York. Quell'andirivieni of tight tank tops, shorts and swollen parcel was a feast for the eyes. Seeing that many gay young Italian alone stopped to greet him with their shrill little voices and more often invited him to a party for that evening or the weekend. After breakfast the boy was going to run a bit 'to Central Park and when the heat was unbearable came from FAO Swartz on Fifth Avenue. That was a must. He did not do anything without first consulting the 8-ball. This was always there waiting for him: on the bench of exposure, situated across from the cashier, his legs wide apart in the midst of a giant teddy bear symbol of the store. Her look of buttons and his serene expression on her face hairy with that curve sewn in an eternal smile was silent a perfect oracle that promised only good news for the boy. Or so he tried to believe him when he waved the black ball after having expressed his desire of the day mentally. 
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