No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
It was her customers who had started the whole acting thing. Almost every night at Chiro’s when she took their orders she was asked if she was an actor or dancer or grad student. Was it her fault that patrons, especially tourists, expected that a young server working (only temporarily!) in a Chelsea trattoria, would be headed for a big career?
Alex Donaldson shot two videos the morning of the day it all collapsed.
“What kind of idiot would send a real Joan Mitchell to us?” Matthew asked.
“Maybe it’s our lucky day?” Vanessa’s heart pattered with excitement. Maybe under my direction, we’re finally being taken seriously as an auction house?
Hadrian attempts to silence me, but I continue. “You are a Greek trapped in the body of a Roman, in a time not meant for you."
Lance loved this neighborhood from the moment we drove through the gates twelve years ago. The ancient trees. The big lots. A fantastic K-8th grade school. The award-winning golf course didn’t hurt. It felt elegant but grounded. West coast country, as described by our real estate agent. If you bought a house here, you had the kind of wealth that didn’t need proving. Women wore high-fashioned brands like Chanel and Hermes but not the crap with the logos – the real stuff from the Paris runways.
The years have flowed faster than on our side, Like the city rain herding fallen leaves Towards the black iron gratings, Then downward , to fatten London’s hidden rivers.