March 27th, 2007, 11:42 pm

I can hear the Cure and garbage trucks

WASHINGTON, DC, March 28, 2007

I woke bent, seemingly, on a day of failed attempts at satiation.

Maker’s Mark the night before had red wax capped my inhibitions, and I climbed - nay, lurched - up mouse-ridden stairs to the fearful, creepy attic, where I dug in boxes and retrieved the chest - abuzzing with long dead batteries, multiple settings, and a similar, phallic shape.

The night was fitful - nightmares of long-dead-dog Dusty, choking on razor blades, and a tiny, eerie haunted dollhouse, which insisted, through icy cold breath, that I find the mangled children. Sleep came not deep.

And so I set upon the day completely empty, needing more than I could afford; too-fast heartbeats, loneliness cocooned, feeling adrift in my connections to heartbroken hobgoblins, Vegas-style lights, repentant ex-journalists, restaurant-owning models and a thousand other spambots.

Fast.

That’s what I needed.

Fast.

And so we, brunettes in twenties, walked half a block for Happy Meals complete with blinky-eyed witch dolls and gray meat cheeseburgers. We sat in a just-green park with an empty fountain, pale office flesh warmed by sudden sun, surrounded by denizens of the dull.

Dinner fared no better - corporate pastrami flesh soaked in false mustard, twanging with cheap horseradish. I couldn’t get full.

I stuffed till it hurt, then wandered home, through the now-dark park. The squirrels came out - wretched, mangy, vicious creatures missing patches of fur, and sodden, solid lumps of people who would never work in the shiny shiny glass towers.

Two miles down 14th Street. Two miles - and a landscape that morphed from rich and gay to poor and black - two miles, one hour, between silent screen sessions.

The bathtub filled to the brim with lavender oil scented water, as if it, some beers, and a now-abused razor could strip away my dingy exterior.

I focused on the tangible - surely, slow food would be the solution - combining slivers of Granny Smith apple, dill havarti, smoked salmon and arugula into salad; cracked pepper and sea salt dusting and unifying.

The symmetry pleased; matching rectangles of cheese and apple, contrasting surely in texture, tang and density. Romance-pink salmon gave hope.

Surely - this could be the answer?

But roommate and co. arrived to partake in homemade birthday cake - double layers of chocolate cake separated from each other only by caramelized coconut cream, united by rich fudge frosting.

It was sweetness, richness, caring and more, baked into form, sliced and served on a balcony with a view of a dumpster and the projects.

But the night is clear. And the cake went down smooth.

And the salad went into the fridge.

And I sit, ashing leftover cigarettes into a gaudy Moroccan ashtray - the sole souvenir from a journey now ended, in a place further away from home than ever before.