Friday, November 15, 2013


I've been told I taste like revolution, since then I always drink on Fridays.

I meet Chloe for lunch in the Meatpacking District, the dark alcohol rushing through my veins helps dissolve the acrid hipster smell around the table. She leaves everything she ordered untouched apart from the tall glass of rye whiskey, then pays the bill with the firm's credit card.

"He's here" she says, suddenly, "I'm seeing him on Sunday". It's been the elephant in the room for weeks now, hearing her say it should make it easier to bear but it doesn't. We both know it's a funeral, later I wander around the McQueen store without any sense of direction, picking out snow white roses for Sunday.

No comments:

Post a Comment