On my birthday DC shows me New York from her roof: No towers anymore, but hey, they blocked the view anyway- now you can see the whole city! Sarcasm has replaced sentiment. There is nothing to say so I chew spinach in silence. Later we go to a fancy café where I blow out a candle on strawberry shortcake. Gwyneth Paltrow giggles from a nearby table as I discuss how it feels to be the child of a virgin who only screwed once. We go to a toy store where several tanned gay men offer me stuffed elephants and penguins. I take the elephant. I name it Elephant. The city is sweating dirt from the ground up; brown exhaust dances around our legs, our sticky hips, our necks. On the walk back we talk about photography, sexuality and the economy until I realize that with no buildings shielding us I've been standing directly in the sun the whole time, DC's skin is gleaming a shiny tequila-brown and I've acquired a ridiculous V-neck sunburn that stains freckles on my chest for months.