my dress is hung

back in Pasadena.

A little tired and a little and bruised and scraped on one side, but otherwise perfectly happy.

You’ll have to ask me in person about the adventures and revelations.  My sincere apologies to those of you who can’t;  I’m starved for looking into faces that I love.

~ ~ ~

N: “Did you return the motorbike?”

E: “Yessir, I did.”

“Did they charge you for the damages?”

“Pshh.  No.  What damages?”

“Well, why are you all scraped up?”

“I got into a tussle with a Frenchman—they’re tougher than they look.”


“I mean, there wasn’t any damage.  The key was bent is all.”

“And how did that happen?”

“I have no idea.”


3 thoughts on “my dress is hung

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