Getting Lucky in MayNicole Steinberg
It was summer in the Mediterranean in the ’60s. Everything I packed was black—so liberating! Our madcap townhouse smelled like candy, sort of citrusy: blood oranges, pink pepper and tangerines. New York had been laden with an excess of beach-to-black-tie gladiators; frighteningly fluorescent, high-octane bacteria. Here, baring your midriff wasn’t a hippie thing—just kind of sexy, like baking bread with cherry-punch jelly; the sweet scents of whipped avocado and sea algae. Tiny baby braids throughout your hair, your glassy Cupid’s bow and ballet dancer ankles: miraculous works of art. Playing music from the bathroom sink, we were dollhouse ingénues—dark violet, smudging lipstick.
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