Thursday, May 16, 2019

Unchained melodies

I never met Anna Sorokin in person, but I know that Chloe did. We haven't really talked about it, she just mentioned it casually, in passing, like one of those pointless anecdotes you sometimes bring up only to break the silence.

Not the we ever needed it, of course. She was more than a friend to me, more like a sister or a lover, and maybe she still is although we haven't spoken or met in years. Time fades away so slowly and yet so quickly, as if to remind us of things we would prefer to forget.

I do it all the time but then something always happens to remind me, and I remember why I still have to do this, why I still need to stay on this path I've chosen, right or wrong, for better or for worse. There are times when it's felt like nothing but a waste of breath, but it always somehow comes back to this.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Pink like my heart

Every guy I ever met more than twice has insisted on buying me underwear. It started when I was 14 in LA and made a cute but all too fragile college freshman get me and Chloe alcohol. I knew he was in love with me but finally had to end it when he sent me a pair of stay-ups in the mail, with a handwritten note I've tried to forget ever since.

Some have better taste than others, but whatever they buy says something important about their personalities:

  • Anything from a generic brand: you will never end up writing a novel/become an actor like you say you want
  • Just a bra: you pretend like you know me just to get close enough to fuck me
  • A whole set: too pretentious for your own good
I've always preferred a pair of panties. It tells me you're honest about your intentions, and if you pick the right ones I might even consider letting you see me in them.

Pictured: the pair a friend of a friend discretely slipped into my coat pocket after dinner last night.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Les nuits des Anglais

The casual contacts you have in a town like Nice. Stephanie and I are at La Merenda when suddenly this British M&A guy I met in Paris at Café de Flore once shows up as if from nowhere and offers me a drink. It's more than a year ago that I thought giving him my number was a good idea, but some people just refuse to forget the stupid things you do while drunk.

After more than a few Vesper Martinis I'm in his apartment on Rue de la Buffa, as soon as I mention growing up in LA he wants to watch Crash on his big screen TV. I tell him it's too close to home while the real reason is that I hate Sandra Bullock ever since she tried to sleep with my dad (before she was famous, obviously).

Instead he lets me go and I wander home, past the street performance on the Promenade. The night is warm and I know it will be at least until the end of August. When I get back home Stephanie is already asleep, her clothes scattered across the floor of our 5th floor room. I can see the Negresco from our balcony, thinking that maybe Henry is there, at his balcony, looking for me too.








Monday, August 13, 2018

Angels

High above the Promenade des Anglais and the sound of airplanes taking off from across the bay. We're at the Méridien with a bottle of rosé wine between us, the only thing I can drink before the end of the summer. Stephanie calmly puts down her lipstick-marked glass on the table, her polka dot Saint Laurent dress a mirage against the dark.

"I know why you keep going to new places", she says, a different kind of tone in her voice, one I can't say I've ever heard before. "I won't tell you what it is because you already know, but I want you to understand that I feel it too."

She lets the silence embrace us as we run out of oxygen to breathe. There are a million things she can say next but instead she holds back for a little too long, then looks up at me with a crooked smile that breaks my heart in two. "Either way", she giggles, "I just love making you speechless".


Friday, July 27, 2018

Une autre fois, mon amour

Every time I go to Rome I get a different feel for it, but I can never say that I love it. It's not pretty like Paris or grand like New York, but sometimes as vulgar as my childhood's LA.

Stephanie feels it too. "Let's go to Nice and get in trouble" she says, a sudden hint of madness in her emerald eyes. My only condition is that we stay away from Le Negresco, so she books the Westminster just for spite.

"Ocean view?" she asks as if she really means it like a question. I don't know how the two of us ever became friends.






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