My Cardboard Balcony

This Ain't The Life by Belinda Roddie Making a scene on the border of Queens, we drink cinnamon and breathe fire when we can. We smoke e-cigs and act like we're the shit. We're the new lost generation, and it sucks big time.

"What's this?" I asked. Sylvia smiled. "It's a martini with a lemon twist." She gestured a manicured hand at the stemmed glass. "Go on. Try it." I took a sip. It reminded me of the last time I had stood on the Golden Gate Bridge, with fog in my throat and mist in my hair. It was cold like the seawater, yet it had a palpable tang that reminded me of how clean the air was at night.