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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.15.05, sunday morning

I woke up at 4 am. 11 minutes later, the phone rang.

. . .

He said, It was a perfect night. We left our coats at home; it was that warm, that perfect. We sold every piece of clothing whose purposes I had outgrown and I picked out a dress that was sewn from beautiful old thin fabric; it was that perfect. We ate sushi at this place I used to visit whenever I was lonely; needless to say, it was oft-visited; dessert was a single scoop of mango ice cream, accompanied by a tiny silver spoon and its precipice graced by a sliver of dried mango; it was that perfect. We walked through campus as the afternoon burned away into black ash: les jeunes filles kept trembly doves in thin cotton bodices amidst bodies lolling on grassy knolls as creekwater gurgled swiftly with their spring treasury and swallows swooped above from and to their nests, marvelous cyclopean bundles of mud and twig packed between the false teeth of VLSB, Our Keeper of Dinosaur Bones; it was that perfect. We had a beer on a patio overlooking the city and read books about Ireland or Jean Genet while candlelight flickered in its red glass sepulchre; it was that perfect. We came home to kiss and cuddle and although I knew it was not true, it seemed that nothing awful would ever come again as swift and as sure as a guillotine singing its way home; it was that perfect a night.




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