Perfect Teeth by Sylvia Wrath

brimfield antique market

Sometimes New York felt exactly like London. A crowded train platform, hoards of honking in the middle of the afternoon. But New York in the summer was uniquely its own, the humid wash of air that hit you waiting for the subway, the smell of piss baked into the sidewalk. Objectively, I could reason that I was contributing to the smell of New York in the summer, garbage and dog pee, as I stood on the sidewalk while a small black dog guffawed its way around a cast iron garden fence looking for the perfect peg to release on. But 5:45 in the morning is not the time to be objective, especially when it's already reaching past 85 degrees, the wafting smell is strong and nauseating, and you're only up this early because your dog has to pee and your partner won't get up to take him out even when it is definitely their turn to do so.

Banana was still deciding which portion of the fence to pee on and I'd left my phone upstairs, so I had nothing else to focus on but the smell, the heat, and the sounds of the city already well past its way of waking up. I rarely had a reason to be up and outside this early in London, so despite the litany of complaints building in my head, I did enjoy my little slice of New York. The city felt less daunting, less like it belonged to everyone else. This stretch of sidewalk between 85th and Central Park West was mine.

"Alright," I said to the pug. "Each fence post is going to be the same in the end, so make your decision quickly and let's get on with it."

Banana did not deign to acknowledge me, but within a few minutes we were done and headed upstairs.

Back in the apartment, things were much the same as I'd left it when I begrudgingly got out of bed. Curtains left open, slashes of light slowly making their way in. A few mugs left on the counter from the night before, a cascade of shoes by the door, stacks of half-finished books on a chair. Harry was still face down on the mattress, limbs strewn about, half under the covers, ass fully out. The air conditioning in the apartment was not as shoddy as his bitching would make one believe, but any excuse to be in the nude worked, I guess.

He didn't wake up as I shut the door and turned the deadbolt behind me, neither did he stir when I clanged the keys into the ceramic bowl. After I released Banana from the lead, he bounded over to the bed, catapulting himself in the spot between Harry's outstretched legs. I rolled my eyes as I schucked off my slippers and climbed into bed, fitting myself into the slim space remaining on the queen sized mattress.

"Harry," I said as I lay down next to him, rolling onto my side to fit my body next to his.

"Harry." I slid my hand along his torso, hip bone to shoulder, fingers gently trailing along the curve.

"Harry." I propped myself up until I was half over him, body stretched across his back, lips brushed against his neck. "Baby, wake up."

A gentle, reluctant stir.

"Haaaarry," I crooned as I pressed the edge of my hip slightly into him. "Harry Barry Banana Bo Barry."

"Guh," he replied, grabbing my hand from where it was creeping up towards him and stopping my movement. "Shh."

I made a sound against his back, a mix between what might have been a sexy-ish meow and a grunt. "Wake up." I pressed my slightly opened mouth against his shoulder blade. "Please?"

"Pah." He snuggled deeper into the pillow. There were a few incomprehensible syllables.

I moved so I was fully on top of him then, chest along his torso, legs fitted around his. He was sweaty from sleep, but still somehow managed to smell good, just the right side of musky. Banana looked momentarily disgruntled before settling back down for a snooze. "I need you to wake up now." I said. "Up up up up up." I accompanied this with a full-on body wiggle, shimming my body against his like a little dancing caterpillar, until I felt an actual stir and the breath change of someone finally rising.