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“She was in town to go to The Hamptons, where her father was getting re-married. Daniel Craig would be there.”
“Coffee tastes like sadness. It tastes like a 40-year-old divorcee who had to give up her lucrative homemade lotion business for a 7-year-old bratty son who will definitely grow up to become a serial killer.”
Words by Adam November. Illustrations by Ilenia Madelaire.
A short story about getting your signals crossed.
As with probably every music festival ever, there’s usually at least one guy in a Utili-Kilt; because, you know, why not.
It’s the kind of memory that will always seem special even though it was so small and insignificant.
He was conventionally attractive, someone who could have posed for the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, long Jesus-locks flowing, a bespeckled Jordan Catalano in head-to-toe Brooks Brothers.
The most unnecessarily painful way for this conversation to happen.
“I wanted to take my finger and rub it over your wide, gleaming teeth… but I was told that probably wasn’t a good idea.”
He was exciting; he liked my musical tastes; he listened to me when I talked. That’s pretty much all I needed to know: I had to have him.