I let him fuck me occasionally as long as I can pretend like his hands are someone else's or even my own. Also, he brings me opium in little brown paper bags and lets me smoke it in bed afterwards. She sits quietly on a chair in the corner of the room the whole time, watching, legs crossed, stripes of raven hair covering much of that pretty face of hers.
The past three months feel both like an instant and a lifetime, I can't decide which is better or worse. I promised myself I'd go back to LA in August but I seem unable to let go of anything these days. I've done it before, to everyone I ever loved, even the ones that ended up leaving me. Everyone except my father of course.
I'll have dinner on the balcony tonight, if you can call red wine and quail eggs dinner. He brought me those too, along with the opium, said I reminded him too much of Brideshead Revisited. It was the sweetest thing I've heard all summer.