We stumbled into the cab that squealed to a stop in front of Cindy's South Bronx apartment. We somehow found out way in, limbs twisted as we sloppily piled in, laughing. Lipstick in our hair. There was glitter streaked down my face, and I didn't care. We opened the windows.
The cabbie ignored us. We ignored him. That's how it goes. That's how this went.
We looked over the bridge as we sped onto the bridge that connected us to Manhattan, to where we wanted to go, to the party in that illegal loft downtown. The skyline seemed more beautiful than ever. There seemed like no other place in the world.
You stuck your head out the window. You hair whipped and swirled around you, and probably added to the beauty of the scene. I did it to my side, and I'm sure the cabbie rolled his eyes as he jabbered away on his cell phone.
"I love New York," you yelled.
"It's the only place!"
We pulled our heads back in the cab as we slammed into more potholes. I was drunk, very drunk. So were you. This is what happens. My thighs stuck to the uncomfortable plasticky cab seats as my miniskirt rode up.
"You know, I love Madonna, and I love New York, but I don't like that Madonna song," I told you. Deep insights after vodka.
You agreed. "Madonna was disappointing."
Yet today, running home over the bridge, seeing the skyline's beauty, I couldn't help but get Madge in my head. And while it's not Madge's best, I do think Madonna addresses much of my deep affection for my favourite city in the world.
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