We decided that one thing we could do with the money is buy a house, so we looked at some houses and it was weird and to offset the weird we got tattoos . . .
I don’t understand cocaine
philosophically . . .
Breathing hard, Eve unlaces her shoes. She knocks them together and watches the sand fall onto the wooden stairs. She stretches her legs and watches the black waves. Eve runs every morning before sunrise, past the jetty and all the way to the sea caves. She feels better when she’s exhausted . . .
He was talking too much; either he had unstable nerves or he was wasted. I asked what he was on.
“Blow,” he said. “Want some?”
I smiled like I felt sorry for him having to ask such a question. He handed me a bag under the table.
“Enjoy,” he said . . .
After the meal we headed back to the Groucho Club. We were a few drinks in now. We went upstairs and had some cocaine in the restroom . . .
“No one else ever needs to know about this . . .”
The sun faded on Paris as I headed to the 5th arrondissement on the 63 bus. I slipped in the back door, as drivers didn’t bother policing fares. My free ride took me over the Seine, to the Left Bank along Boulevard Saint Germaine and dropped me near Luxembourg Gardens. Down Rue Saint Jacques on foot, passed La Sorbonne, Le Pantheon, and finally onto the stool of a bar run by Aussies . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- The Baker’s Son: My Life in Business
- Home: Social Essays
- The Roving Tree
- Trinidad Noir
- The Family Mansion
- Tales of the Out & the Gone
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- Getting It Right
- Black History Digit
- The Half That’s Never Been Told: The Real-Life Reggae Adventures of Doctor Dread