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About Paris

We slip into an alley—dark, damp, pure *Mulholland* vibes. “This is the girl,” I think again, head spinnin’—wine or lust, who knows? She’s quick, efficient—prolly done this a hundred times. Me? I’m imaginin’ I’m Justin Theroux, all broody and lost, fuckin’ a stranger while the world unravels. “What’s my name?” I laugh again—stupid question, she don’t care. It’s over fast—too fast—and I’m left leanin’ on a wall, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ how bloody absurd it all is.

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A fine silk bobbin-net used for women's dresses, veils, hats, etc. c This imitation is of silk, called tulle, from the name of the town where it is.

But wait, it gets better. I’m walking back, feeling defeated, when I bump into an old lady. She’s got this huge smile, and she’s like, “You look like you need a hug!” I’m thinking, “Lady, I just chased a thief!” But I can’t help but laugh. She gives me a hug, and it’s oddly comforting.

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