Dear T,

However it could have went in Paris, years ago, in the night, drunk, along streets with willing women, paying, and the three hoods in the offshoot of the alley, while I turned to look as I left.

Uncertainty in their eyes—they seemed to be dealing—but I turned my head and walked back out into the main street.

I remember a bar later on, and watching a British comedy on a television with two Asians drinking beside me. They laughed at all the wrong times, or so it seemed to me.

I woke up with blood on my pillow, and glass in my hand.