LIke two fawns colliding together, our legs mingled and entangled in the backseat. Physically hazardous with joint scraps and hair caught in the door, well worth it.
HIs name was Ben. He’s a Dartmouth boy like my father, and he has perfect hair that glistens gossamer and ripples in soft breezes with mystical root lift.
Saturday night, honk. Ben. Ferrari 250 GT California. Backseat fun. My favorite silk Hermes. A GIRL KNOWS.
that trailer park turned runway clone that your older brother fell in looove with. He coos as he drops her r’s and sloshes together syllables.
Now she has a rock. She’s dipping into the family trust. Her new wardrobe—-RATCHET.
I almost freaked when she nabbed John John, but then I couldn’t. THAT PERFECT SHADE OF BLONDE
When I’m having a bad day, I sniff the air from my boyfriend’s penthouse balcony. I watch little people scurrying below.
Shoulders back, hips straight because you know they’re watching.
Fashion week is here. I’m not walking, but it’s a quarterly reminder. Do you know how big your thighs are?
Tomatos (low carb)
Cans of tuna fish ( I like feeling poor when I swivel open little tins of stale fish. I don’t feel like I’m dieting. I feel like I’m on a mission.)
Mom was homecoming queen and head cheerleader. It’s genetic.
Why do thighs touch when they don’t have to?