At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
I have measured out my life in expensive hotels, it seems, and I gauge my tan in types of honey. I am now millefiori, and aspire to castagna.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
Unusually for Israel, this Land of Blutos, he had no beard, no stubble, no hairy chest. He said, “Let’s go in,” so in we went.
I’ve decided to stop saying goodbye, and start saying hello, instead.
Maybe everyone thinks it’s his costume for Purim, a Bacon painting of a Screaming Pope.
Nathan imagines they’d be caught and, besides, the man may be a serial killer, so suggests the cruising park behind the Hilton instead. Much safer.