In the morning, she took her tea with milk and two cubes of Perruche sugar. Pushing a pair of clear lucite eyeglasses up the sweet slope of her nose, she pondered the newspaper. Oh dear, her moist brain thought, Rwanda. It was too much; she pulled a handkerchief from her handkerchief drawer and coughed into it, fatally. That day’s work at the Children’s Library was particularly stressful. Two mothers asked the location of the restroom, and an eleven-year hold was caught snorting Adderall in the Under the Sea Storytime Castle. Dinner was a cigarette and an asparagus. As per her evening habit, she plucked up The Arcades Project before quickly setting it down again. This was how she avoided muscle atrophy. There were so many things she wanted desperately from life: the curve of a highball to cool her moist forehead, a goat cheese pizza the size of a hubcap, a bra.
Molly Blouse in reverse swiss dot. Velvet Secretary Skirt.
This blog is everything and nothing I’ve never known I wanted or needed.
I shall toast you with our last bottle of the ’67 Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Francaises at la fête this evening, if it should please la Mère. Though nothing has. Though nothing can. Not since Carine. Maman, we weep for you.