[And in the back of the saloon, the piano rang out twinges of 1890]
"She passed through the tables with a grace of angels and a smirk of neglect. She felt as though her feet were forever to be held to the hardened, ever-creaking boards below her. She hated her reflection in mirrors she passed and glasses she handed, but she carried red lipstick on her person at all times. She found security in the smallest of things."
"Pulling apart the grains
of sand left lodged in his sole,
The hourglass was once again
upturned and dissolving"
He'll never forget the white shag carpet beside her bed.
Reading: Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment