200: ...O, My.

A friend from some southern town comes to the Big Apple. On Friday with him, I break bread on Jane's sumptuous table, and to hit the G Spot, I imbibe on an Appletini. But I miss. For my wandering hand syndrome, I seek counsel at Therapy. On Saturday night, instead of Bread, I opt for a glass of water, which takes forever to come. Poor harried girl. Can a hug help to hurry her up? I wonder. Eventually, even the daisy's thirst gets quenched. The night ends with us cashing out at the Bank some saved up booty shaking. Then we part: he, to his abode, and I, to abide. With a new realization. That the city is more than enough. That I am more than enough.

A gift to a friend from some southern town: