New York City, July 1995 by Stacy Wakefield
For a while I thought Lorenzo would be my boyfriend. I’d had guy friends like him before, I should have known better. They think I’m great because I’m not girly, we like the same bands and talk about records, and they really like me, but when it comes down to it, they can’t deal with the size of my ass. Lorenzo practically told me to my face that I was a million times cooler than the little waitress from the coffee shop who wanted him to come over to her apartment and screw in a light bulb. She stood over our booth in her little skirt, twisting a curl on a finger. Lorenzo seriously wanted to complain to me about how she was kind of a twit, like I should have sympathy for him.
Whatever. I just wanted a house. We had been sleeping on the roof at ABC NoRio all summer, it was like a tent city up there. It was fun at first, but summer would be over soon, we needed a place to live.