I'm tired, and not just from the overpriced long drinks at the airports and the sleepless hours across the darkness of the ocean. Not just from the tepid jet lag but from the phantom pains of Henry's absence, obstinately aching through every part of my body.
then New York, it always seems like a fairytale filtered through a taxi
window, the neon signs and the traces of rain on the sidewalks like
splinters in my mind. The apartment smells of solitude and vapid
champagne, mother must have been here recently, leaving the blinds
opened and the balcony door inattentively unlocked.
I'm in her
sofa with her Cartier de Lune watching afternoon shadows crawl silently
across the floor, waiting for the sound of her keys in the lock. I
imagine her like before, striking a pose in the doorway, a subtle smile
on her Guerlain lips and her heels like rhythmic hail against the
polished black marble. She used to be so happy.