Dreams will tear us apart

A second weekend without her, staying sober seemed even more laughably absurd than emptying the last bottle of clear Russian vodka alone, so I did. Mother talks more to her flowers than with me and in this apathetic state of mine it makes perfect sense. She's calmer than usual, if it wasn't for the tranquilizing effect her Cartier de Lune always has on me I'm sure I'd be worried.

Last night I slept in Henry's Givenchy cardigan, the silence from Paris disturbs me more than I imagined. I dream about him reading my letter just before fucking a willowy French girl with wavy ginger hair and lavender satin underwear. She giggles femininely at his jokes and he promises to take her to New York over Christmas. I wake up outside my body, in the pale winter light my collarbones look just like hers.

Seeing me standing by the window in his little Brooklyn apartment reminded him of an undiscovered Vermeer painting. At least that's what he said.