Literature In Los Angeles


In SEX on January 12, 2010 at 3:08 pm

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― “Oh, please, you don’t need to call the FBI…”

I take a breath and light a cigarette.

― “…he disappeared overnight, that’s true but, I’m sure he’s still at the Coffee Bean on Sunset and Fairfax where you guys met… same bullshits and same compliments. Just, for somebody else, now.”

We’re at the Patio Café of the Sunset Marquis Hotel.
Her little actor has just evaporated in the Hollywood sky but, Romance’s real anxiety is all for someone else, who’s now playing on the very flexible ground of this hard rock hotel.

There’s a reason if this morning we’re submerging ourselves into such a deluxe coffee: the sunset-to-sunrise rushes of passion with her rock’ n’ blues man are still tingling between these walls and purpling the blood under her skin.

Right now, he’s back in town. Back in this hotel. Back in their room.

Romance didn’t accept to follow him to Broadway.
Their two-week affair was too fresh. Fresh but not very clean, as she found out later, when their matchmaker went to jail.

Under this five star sun, I’m trying to convince her to go upstairs and let her lover know she had no idea he was paying five-hundred dollars for each fuck they had.
Based on their mutual attraction, we’re talking about big money, here. Enough to leave that pathetic job as waitress.

These things happen when you have a roommate whose boyfriend always carries an unreasonable amount of cash.
His job? “Celebrities’ advisor.”

He had seen Romance around the apartment for quite a while, the night he asked her to join him for an exclusive party.

As soon as they walked in, she noticed this prematurely gray but handsome guy at the bar. Same did he.
Ten minutes later, the “celebrities’ advisor” and that salt and pepper smile were talking and looking at her.
She caught them and smiled back. Done deal.

Let’s say it was weird that, for the first “date,” the music man called through the “advisor.”

Let’s say she didn’t understand the concierge’s prompt “I perfectly understand…. This way, please,” when, only for a second, she hesitated to sign the hotel’s guestbook.

Let’s say the champagne helped her to find exhilarating the nonchalance he used to call the same concierge with, two or three times every night, to make him run out to buy the little plastic bonnets for his penis.

Let’s also say this American idol had a “little” thing for cocaine, was a “little bit” paranoid about not-existent paparazzi and asked her a few times (too many) what size of condoms he should have ordered, until she attentively studied his very heated up musical instrument and finally said: “…yes, this time it’s a large…. Maybe.”




After winning the sun’s reflection on the I-Phone’s screen, I take a closer look at a picture of him she is showing me with the circumspection of a thief.

Same hazelnut, melting eyes. Same tiny, sugary smile. Same creamy bones.
Two puff pastries meant for each other.

Just a few days ago I was watching Romance walking to my car through the traffic of the college entrance and I was wondering how you can match this French petit douce, in this town.
She’s got a sumptuous fill of tasty brains, an always happy cascade of chocolate hair and the invitingly gentle strength of a princess but, still, in this city of images, a thin, sulky, sexy, crumbling candy has definitely more chances to find the lollipop of her mirrors.

―“So, Romance, why are you now afraid to tell someone who has been paying for you that, actually, you were there for free?”

She looks down.

― “At least, tell him to pay you personally, this time!”

― “It’s not about the money,” she grumbles.

― “So, what’s all this about, Romance?”

As she stands up, puts on her Ray-Bans and turns to the ladies room, the air starts playing a warm Spanish guitar of gipsy lyrics:

Taking your charms and dreams to the Golden State
Make your way, seal your fate

But who gets cut when the knife is dull?
And who gets lost when the map is full?

Nobody wins and nobody loses
Just a handful of sorrows
And too many excuses

I try to get more coffee from our baby Casanova server that has totally forgot us for the lavish, promising nurturance of a multi-plastic-surgery elderly doll by the pool.
He must have a lot in common with Romance’s just-evaporated little actor, now that I pay more attention to the perfect symmetry of his expressionless, flat, plastered face. In fact, they totally look like each other’s (totally useless) photocopy.

Looking at him, I suddenly empathize with Romance’s decision.
Why should she put at risk the consolidated balance of the sparkling, unique encounters with her music “client?” For what, exactly?

Our baby Casanova is just a sign from this Golden State sky: when it comes to romance, never exchange a fortuitous, solid, prolific bond with a faithful customer for the charms and the dreams of a deliberate, weak, poor situation with a flake boyfriend.
Never ever. Believe me, it’s not convenient. Not in LA.

Story by Liliana Isella.

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*West Texas Sky by Taylor Hicks

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