Friday, this damned city of angels is burdened by clouds, I by perplexity. All afternoon I've been hiding from the outside world in the greyish Etro cashmere sweater I bought him for his birthday in January. This morning, without notice like a summer storm, he came by to return it with the poisonous words well, I guess that's it. I looked at him awkwardly in silence and then watched him walk away, convulsively holding on to the soft sweater.
He must have worn it. It smells like him. Smells like defeat.