Chloe knows what it means to dress up so she came to me in her best YSL and smokey eyes Friday night, light as a feather without even trying. When she paints her lips red as blood she shoots you down harder than any heroine from the French Nouvelle Vague. Sometimes I think of what could happen if she only knew how to use it.
She saved my life once. I carelessly mixed some pills I found in mother's bedside table with too much alcohol before going out, and ended up collapsing on the dance floor. Chloe dropped everything, forced me to throw up and fed me water till I threw up again. When we got home she sat next to me on the floor all through the night, keeping me warm and awake while the shivering slowly wore off.
This time I just wanted to be close to her so we lit a fire and shared a bottle of wine in the dark. When the morning approached I told her I was cold, so she stepped out of her dress and gave it to me. It's her way of saying she knows how nothing makes me warm like her naked porcelain skin.
And all I can think of now: why don't moments like those last forever?