After exertions, he told me more about his life. He is, of course, involved with someone, blah blah, they’re breaking up, blah blah, or maybe not, blah blah.
It may have been my sympathetic manner, it may have been the badge that says ‘Cock’ that I wear on my lapel, maybe it’s Maybelline, who can tell, but Ido soon began to tell me scandalous stories about his busy sex life.
He was the colour of honey, a few freckles across his shoulders, his pale-pink nipples catching the sunlight.
The service was conducted, of course, by a large angel with glitter in her hair.
Finally, I sat in the barber’s chair. “Not too short,” I said. “You want me to cut your eyebrows?” he asked.
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.
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.