I don't remember my skin being this pale, almost transparent. Since Chloe left I sometimes feel as if I only exist in between these lines I'm writing, but then someone send me an email saying they saw me in the street somewhere. "Outside Gusto on Greenwich, you wore a sand colored trench coat and your hair like a plundered bird's nest".
Lunch with mother and her friends was a Catholic
wake on Mescaline (you'd have to be there). She had the salmon, I
happened to mention that Christian Dior died choking on a fish bone.
"You know how that story saddens me" she said, her voice imperceptibly
trembling. "Also, it's highly disputed".
She's recently changed
her afternoon drink from Brandy to Champagne and the silence from Paris
is getting increasingly intrusive.