neon : peachtree street

Start simple. A cherry limeade and tater tots will do, eaten in a silver car that quickly heads further south along a freeway very familiar to the both of you.

Dress it up. Put on your red shoes, your best pearls, your genie pants and go, go, go until you can’t walk, can’t think, can’t stay awake. Watch them say "I do." Say goodbye. Let your friends take you away afterwards, where you sleep in the car, lulled by the freeway, for nearly two hours.

The peanut butter and German honey sandwich you are given will be the last meal you eat in someone’s house for some number of days. You suspect this, and your drive to savor this last piece of house and home wars with your immediate need for food.

The next morning takes you back into that dirty, sticky city you love, with a beloved girl and an almost-netfriend boy sharing your table. You point at dim sum carts and drink your chrysanthemum tea in the hopes that it will fill the pit of fear in your stomach, because it is nearing the time of your first flight. Your friends can hold your hands but they cannot put you on the plane; you must walk the path you chose and this starts with your first flight, your first of six in one week.

It starts with the airport near Peachtree Street.

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