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.
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.