He sits back in his chair to admire his taste. He tells me something about you. He says he cannot see you from my words, that you do not truly exist. He says loving without returns is like a parched tongue in the desert. The more time passes, the more you want water.
And here I am, on the French Riviera, making out with a Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx. The only difference is we’re sleeping in bunk beds in different rooms, with four or five other people. There’s nowhere to have sex.