Sunday bloody Sunday

I wake up on Sunday to the sound of ambulances on 5th, the sirens pierce through my ears like a laser. It's close to 2 PM, my head about to burst open, Chloe still sleeps in the arms of the semi celebrity she wore down the night before (I'm not naming names). I remember lights, arched backs under damp clothing and music, then a hazy fog and skyscrapers tumbling down on me while we fled somewhere in a taxi.

I get up, read wonderful things written about me, then spend the rest of the day wrapped up in a cashmere blanket awaiting the next episode of Mad Men. Chloe stretched out like a cat on the sofa, she took his number as a gesture but threw it away the minute he left. "I want to be Don Draper" she sighs, "only in lace".

And we start fantasizing about the lady in black. Chloe calls her Louise, she lives alone somewhere on the Upper East Side in an apartment dressed in empty bookshelves and dusty portrait paintings. She's afraid of the dark, consumed by a secret so terrifying that it kills everything that comes too close, including a spectacularly elegant Siamese cat named Coco, now buried under a Cherry tree in Central Park. If only it were true.