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mood |
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less i think, more i can forget |
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music |
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Javier listening to a phone sex operator |
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Lulu and I are sitting in a lounge in soho, I'm nursing a lemon stoli and she's giving slow, languid head to a half-finished monte cristo cigar. There are indiscrete flecks of blood on her cream Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche blouse that she does not make an attempt to conceal, but instead, postures herself as if wearing newly pinned badges of honour. She crosses and uncrosses her legs hungrily everytime the young tanned waiters pass by, who briefly acknowledge her flirt with a blush of recognition, then scurry back into the kitchen to unload dirty dishes, jerk themselves off for a few seconds, then bring out our entrees. She greedily snaps up the crab and caviar on wholemeal while I nonchalantly prod my baby squid salad, bored of this whole replayed charade. Outside, an ugly baby is carted around in pram and designer overalls by a malnourished hispanic nanny who accompanies an emaciated blonde woman who looks like Jodie Foster, but is taller by about 5 inches. I notice that the woman, probably a model in rehab, hasn't covered the track lines on her legs or arms properly, the fake tanning solution she's smeared herself with has instead yellowed the injection sites which horrified mothers sneer at as they briskly evade her path. On the other side of the street a homeless man harasses a shop girl smoking outside the store on her break, she ignores him initially, then when his demands for a cigarette persist, she takes a small flick knife out of her purse and discretely lunges it into his abdomen five times before extinguishing her cigarette onto his forehead and re-entering the store. I turn my head to face Lulu, who I see staggering from the bathroom, looking slightly flushed. Our waiter Anton, exits the stalls after her, re-adjusting his belt buckle before returning to the kitchen. I activate the timer strapped underneath our table as Lulu returns and continues to suck on her cigar, occasionally sipping the glass of Cristal champagne that is smeared with her neon-pink lipstick. I drop money onto the table for my unfinished meal and head for the door. Lulu ignores me and fingers her untouched lobster bisque. Sean picks me up outside, and in the rear view mirror of his Audi TT I spot the perplexed look on her face as she sees him, and panicked, she begins to rise from her chair in protest but is interrupted by thousands of shards of timber, fabric and glass that impale her face and body from the explosion beneath the table. The light, smoke, fire and debris make it completley impossible for me to see the consequence of the detonation clearly, especially from the rear-view-mirror of a speeding sports car that barely escapes the wrath of hurtling shrapnel and charred body parts. We park in a near by underground car park and dust ourselves off, I pick pieces of wood and caesar salad out of my hair and Sean finds an intact Cartier watch, still attached to the owner's hand, resting on the backseat of his convertible.
In his apartment I light a cigar and lie on his bed while he takes a shower to rid himself of "that horrid chanel no. 5 smell" from the restaraunt. I flick through mindlessly through cable tv channels and while sucking on the cigar I suddenly find myself craving Crab and Caviar on wholemeal.
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