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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
"My experience is learning, but not from you" Even though he wasn't in her head. She slept with a book between the legs. She who wrote tragedy out of anything remotely funny. Do not break the seal until you are told to do so. Now they can both feel unremarkable. She gristles at the word screenplay. Nictitations, short work in longhand, thoughts in thick description. Bike chain slapping signpost. The smell of band-aids that couldn't be helped. She can already see the tv in the background of his inflammations. We're all syndicated, and feeling more or less white male. Skirting alterity, surfaces only when straddling a hardcover. He busts ghosts on his off-time, plays golf on rice paddies, goes for a dip in the Gobi. The slap on the bum stops there. More divvied-up space for the sake of comfort: one hair's breadth for you, one arm's length for me. The educated use of time. Where she enjoys herself in the kitchen, and the many uses of orange peels. A book between the legs. The slap that brings you back home and far out. In pursuit of the least common compromise, the delusion with the most elbow room. Two characters. So it's drama. The interior set in a lot.