I feel I need to tell you about sleeping with Chloe. I could write volumes on the subject, but I'll spare you everything but the little details. Her quiet, almost imperceptible breaths, the only distinction from history's most beautiful lit de parade. The way my cream white silk sheets wrap around her slender body, reminiscent of the Pietà. Yesterday she wore her perfect skin and a pair of purple DKNY panties underneath, her striped Tsumori Chisato dress carelessly thrown on the floor next to my bed. No one can undress like her.
It's nothing sexual of course, although the image of men always fades a little in her vicinity. Carl dated her for a while, but he must have failed to notice her hair in the early sunlight (glowing chestnut waves across the pillow). If he had, I would have had no one to drive me around during those sleepless summer nights, and it would have been harder to imagine Chloe untouched and pure, waking up next to me with a smile on her thin porcelain lips. I wouldn't trade her for anything.