Young Divorcee in ParisLaura Cronk
Marilyn Hacker is hitting on me and I like it. Oh, Left Bank, swallow me up, bind my chest, give me a literary something. Her hands are experienced and precise, just look at her sonnets, sweet spiked jabs at her lover. That lover is gone and here I am. I'm young enough and suddenly here, flapper beads and Shakespeare to slap around. I'm ready. I'll go on strike. I won't work another day in my life. Not another day's work left in me after her. Being her half secret will take all my energy. I'll wear everything tight for her. Try for a tight underfed Parisian ass. I'll read up on Hugo and denounce him. I'll sing Piaf only in the bath. I'll smell so good. Like tonight. We're meeting her friends. Dinner, surely cream sauce and enough wine to lead everyone's stocking feet up the legs of another under the table. I've painted my toes and pumiced my calluses. My pants are tight enough to show the bones in my knees. I need to be drunk. I need to be a stone unearthed and overturned. I'll write Mother, Grandmother next month. Everything good. The city is beautiful. You were right. The love of a woman for another. Much harder, much faster. I'm paying my dues. I wash the blood out of her linen. I need her.
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