I open a door to an apartment I know well, pretending I don’t know it at all. Her petite frame stands in the middle of the lounge, looking unsure, squeezing a glass of sparkling champagne so hard, she’s at risk of crushing it in her palm.
And one early evening, I think it was just the next week, Mr. Sinclair and his wife, pretty petite wife Eva, picked me up in their little British sports car for the three of us to go up to Kiyoshi Kodama’s place, high in the old gold country hills, by a little river or creek they said, for an evening with no clothes on, and whatever else. It was a nice evening. You could be, I imagined, pretty comfortable with no clothes on, or so I hoped. I looked forward to the no clothes on part. Given a choice I’d have worn no clothes all the time. That appealed.
The plum stone—clasped between modest gold shoulders—announces its polarity (blue/red, warm/cool, earth/glamor) in a light-eating way…
I didn’t hear the water running. You didn’t wash your hands.
I passed her as I went inside. We exchanged glances, but again nothing more. Then something strange…
The guy next door was honking away, clearing something from deep in his head, blowing out his sinuses in the attempt. “What the hell’s that goddamned noise?! Sounds like somebody’s got a sinus full of pussy!” GayOrg Washington yelled through the phone. “I can hear it from here for Chrissakes!”
Almost a full century after the failure of the Demeter system due to its inefficiency – start, stop, start, stop, turn; start, stop, turn – not to mention the literal stumbling blocks, there is a newer system for autonomously harvesting crops: Saturn, LLC’s self-propelled lateral-move automated harvesting system. Saturn, for short.
I was twenty-five the first time everything fell apart for me. My boyfriend, Dominic, broke up with me after five years together and we cut short the lease on the little flat we were renting in West Hampstead. This meant I had to scrabble around for a room to rent in London, a city that now felt vast and radically unfamiliar, even after four years there.
The first time Yvonne ran away, this was maybe 1970 or 1972, she had so much fun at the O’Farrell that all she thought about after the goon kidnapper sent by her bitch mother hustled her home was how to get back to the mountain of ‘ludes mixed with red and yellow M&Ms in the green candy dish on Artie’s desk. If you saw that old movie, you might think you know this story, but you don’t. This is about Yvonne, Mr. Ears, and how Yvonne conquered Hollywood, not about dick. Well, some dick, but not all.
“Don’t they look glorious at this age. Men. The bastards.” Pia and Briony are looking at their husbands across the room. The two men have their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and are thanking everyone for a great party. “And don’t we look shit,” says Pia. Briony raises scant brows. “Speak for yourself, love.”