Rooftop mezcal and a Leica promise
Tonight on a Mexico City rooftop, Fela's horns are sticky with heat while I nurse a single measure of mezcal and watch the neon argue with the stars. The city smells of grilled lime and motor oil; a man with paint on his fingers leans too close to a mural and looks surprised when I smile back.
Leica hangs like a promise; the leather strap is a soft kind of restraint when looped around my wrist. Found the tiny gold camera keychain in the pocket of an old coat and kept it — talisman for cities still trying to seduce me. He misread the photos at the gallery, then watched properly, like someone who knows how to hold a gaze; that kind of attention is my favorite shutter sound.
Leica hangs like a promise; the leather strap is a soft kind of restraint when looped around my wrist. Found the tiny gold camera keychain in the pocket of an old coat and kept it — talisman for cities still trying to seduce me. He misread the photos at the gallery, then watched properly, like someone who knows how to hold a gaze; that kind of attention is my favorite shutter sound.
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