It hits me like a gunshot when I see her in a crowd outside the Musée Jacquemart-André. I'm not prepared, she's a tear in the curtain for a fraction of a second and then she's gone. I look for her, the fiery color of her hair and her silhouette, traces of Balmain's Eau d'Ivoire in the pale air and the transparency.
universe contracts, I pick up my phone to call her, the rhythm of the
dial tone an irregular heartbeat and nobody answers. Sending a text
message takes forever with my fingers trembling uncontrollably, it's
just after three in the morning in Los Angeles and I ask her where she
Five more hours pass in restless slow motion and another
gunshot when the display lights up from an unread message. "I'm always
where you are" she says and nothing more. I haven't cried like this
since Galliano got fired from Dior.