Dear Jeremy, I wanted to talk about Sapphire. The stripper you slept with last Easter when I went home for my mother’s funeral. You were right. Sapphire is much better with her mouth.
As we sat on the rims of wash basins, you told me of how the one before, the one whose stiletto strut dazzled you into submission had the gall to call you myopic.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris, of Florence and Venice, of worlds we would travel. We walked among roses until thorns turned to claws and flowers were beautiful no more.