Penelope clears her throat and we fall into silence. She plants herself among the statues, makes thoughtful eye contact with each of us, and launches into a poem about new love:

Oh, darling, whoever you aren’t,

we’re naked in another yellow bed.

Winter’s coming and I’ve learned enough

skin that it’s like sky

to me. All the curtains in Brooklyn

are cream-colored linen and tied

in bows like nervous tongues

along white windowsills.

Indian summer spent

tumble-weeding through

subway systems, white

pavements, gardens to basement

bedrooms with rainwater blistered

ceilings to coil my body like a broken spring

in another mattress.

I would like to mean something

soon. To wake along

the frayed edge of morning

and unravel

the afternoon together, eat oranges in bed

and plant my toothbrush

in a porcelain socket like a flag.

Oh darling, whoever you aren’t,

let me learn your mathematics—

the important numbers—birthdays,

siblings, alarm codes, lovers—how many

months the bread’s been there, how

many days since you phoned your mother,

how many drinks until you’re whiskey silly,

how many ecstasies you can find in me.

White sky over Brooklyn, the endlessness

of new skin. I’ll whittle

these clouds into water—though I’m hoping

for ice, for the snap of weight and bright resistance,

for a white bone through skin—

for your bones, darling, for your skin.

It’s a startling sensation to hear your own inner thoughts—the ones you might not have ever fully admitted to yourself—spoken out loud in gorgeous poetic imagery here in this bizarre sculpture garden at a fun house disco. When she’s finished, Penelope concludes with a small curtsy. Raj fishes a five-dollar bill out of his wallet as a tip, per the event’s rules.

“Enjoy your evening, babes,” she says, slipping past us into the bar to find another group of listeners. “Good to see you, Raj.”

“That was beautiful,” I say, once we’re alone.

“It really was,” he agrees.

There’s a lull, and I can tell we both want to say more.

“It made me feel . . .” I try to search for the right words. “It made me feel exactly the way I feel about you? Like this is new and good and I want more.”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. It was eerie.”

“Eerie, but kind of perfect,” I muse.