paris says..

At a party. C is queen. In control, wearing silk, shimmering. All the girls wear clumsy wedges. Not a stiletto in sight. Where are we? Me, in control, in the corner, alone. Out on the floor - no control. 


A girl smokes golden cigarettes in the window sill. She painted them. I can see a little spot she missed, right next to her pinkie. That's right, she holds them between her pinkie and ring finger. 


A boy comes out from the kitchen with a silver tray. Foie gras and something that looks like flour. Does he want to brag? Does he live here? C walks up to him and says, with a british accent:
- That really looks like poop, referring to the foie gras. 
The boy looks offended. And so she is the center of attention. Who is the silk queen from far away? Poor boy.


Paris makes me scream. No need for the good-girl-charade. In the circle shaped room, in what corner can I hide?