Blowing smoke

Chloe has taken a job writing copy for an ad agency downtown. "I only write for money" she says when I ask her if she's going to start a blog, her slender fingers gracefully wrapped around a fictitious whiskey glass. "That was my Don Draper impression".

Carl called her Saturday night, just as she was stepping into a semi transparent black Gaultier skirt, ready for free drinks and dancing. "She's here" I heard her say with a muted voice, looking in my direction. She walked around restlessly with the skirt around her ankles dusting the floors, listening more than talking. "I can't wear this now" she sighed after ending the conversation, changing into a summery floral dress. It was her way of saying I shouldn't ask, so I didn't.

We went out, got drunk and came back home as the first sunlight hit the walls in the bedroom. "Tell me a story" she said, "one that doesn't end well". I told her about a young couple and a train, about untold secrets and a diary with a few missing pages, one that ended when the story was just about to begin. 

1978-12-06

I'm sitting alone in the hotel lobby, T left an hour ago without saying a word. I don't blame him, there's nothing left for him to do here, but I wish things had ended differently between us. More than that, I wish they hadn't ended at all, but maybe this is the way it had to be. I will never forget what he did for me, I guess in some way it proves that he actually loved me, like I loved him, and still do.