The first real kiss is the one by which you measure all others. Anthony Hopkins in Hearts in Atlantis told me that. I only saw half The Human Stain so I’m not sure if there is any advice for me in that. I fold out the laminated intersection of coloured streets. I want to meander. Wander. But I am tired. Just like you knew I’d be. My hand-drawn map from the Japanese New Yorker isn’t as simple as he implied. Or maybe it is. Maybe I am the one complicating things. After all Kabukicho is just a yellow sign with an arrow pointing up the stairs. I should have had more ice cream on the Narita Express. There are vending machines everywhere but I don’t have change. You should have come with me. You should have held my hand the whole way. You should have fallen in love with me. Not the union. Or Liberty. Or the American way. I like it when you kiss my neck and leave your tiger-stripe mark. Paw me. Poor me. I still think there’s hope. I still think that you want to show me Central Park when it snows. I still think this is heading somewhere. And somewhere you are laughing. Silently applauding my ignorance. Praying I stay on my knees and don’t expect anything for a while to come. For as long as it takes to get me out of your system. But you didn’t count on my mouth. And my big breasts. And my pretty arse. It will take longer than you thought.