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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


08.21.02, wednesday afternoon

Yes, I had to watch the waiter's face falling quickly as I ordered the chianti. It was the cheapest on the menu. Humph. Meanwhile Annie's unpronounceable brand of scotch married well with the peach lying bald and roasted in a pool of orange cream. (She says caramel. I say nay.) And I must remark, Annie, that you were quite startlingly vivid in the darkness of the restaurant, yer shoulders like, um, pearl against the scarlet of yer, um, peasant blouse. (Can we hear Nelly's "it's getting hot in here" please?)






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