Your first sight upon waking is the cracking ceiling, a gross beige popcorn chipping in the corners. Rising, your feet meeting the creaky wooden flooring, a gust of wind hitting your bare legs from the open French doors leading to the balcony. You look past the living area of the hotel for the source of the gust, your eyes landing on a slim, curvy woman leaning against the cast iron railing overlooking the street three story below. The cold morning window blowing around her legs, lifting and swaying her silk robe. The orange sun bouncing off’ve red brick and street below casting an almost golden aura on her mocha skin. The sounds of cars down below, that lingering stench in the air… New York City, you know it. The sheets fall to the floor as you exit the bed, passing by the sofa on your left, behind that the kitchenette, and on your right the television. The floor creaks and wheezes below your feet, alas, the woman never turns to face it. Simply leaned over the railing, raising a cigarette pinched between her pointer and middle finger to her devil red lips. Her short coffee coloured hair swishing loosely in the wind, dragging her scent of French vanilla and warm caramel to your senses.

The night before is a blur, like rewinding a VHS tape wearing sunglasses smeared with Vasoline. Overpriced champagne, rooftop dancing in a downpour, all coming back in fuzzy bursts. Do I have to say it? Contractually? Liven La Vida Loca.