The masked Frenchman with the theatrical accent scribbled down an address on a napkin, by the morning the lipstick letters were smudged beyond recognition and all that remained legible was a number, "53".
Every man that's ever been in love with me has bought me unusable underwear in red lace or shimmering black silk. Sometimes they're expensive (Elle MacPherson) and sometimes they're not, I'm pretty sure the H&M bra I got for a birthday was really just a clever way of saying we should start seeing other people.
The only one that ever understood me was Carl. He picked out something egg shell white in the thinnest cotton because he said it reminded him of Nabokov. If my life was a literary reference I would always want it to be Dolores on a dotted line.