The diner was empty apart from the guy in the corner. He’d been eyeing her all night. Patty was used to eyes on her, sometimes they felt like insects crawling across her deadened skin.
Green note: You can see the novel Mr. Glamour as a symbol of the primordial mechanism of obsession with aesthetics, acquisition, and exclusivity. Or you can consider the man, Mr. […]
The Veuve Clicquot is flowing tonight. There are no Lenten sacrifices besides the odd politician and sex worker. It’s Fat Thursday, the day Richard Godwin’s blue-eyed Apostle begins his rise. […]