I’d left her with nothing but a rolled up fifty dollar bill and a saucepan with some Spanish soup made from the sherry I’d drunk and she’d watched me drink the night before. She didn’t like the sherry but she’d finished the bottle of white wine she’d borrowed from her neighbour at 2am all by herself. I was staying at her place because I had a meeting in the city in the morning and she’d insisted I not get a hotel. I’d gone to bed early but she woke me sometime past two thirty after she arrived home. She had a small bag of cocaine in one hand and two glasses in the other. My participation, she had already explained via text message from the cab, was not optional. That was the Tuesday before she flew away. I’d been reading Breakfast at Tiffany’s and had already started calling her Hollie Golightly.
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