A sweetheart with punk rock manners

I had an early morning coffe at Intelli, Silver lake, with Miri yesterday. Needed to get out of the house where questions come to die, and far away from the one asking them as well. Miri hid her tired eyes behind the pretty dark bangs of hers and I draw djuging eyes towards us with the cigarette smoke making it's way from my dark red lips up in the air, passing the perfectly tanned and healthy sitting next to us. I don't care, and Miri understands me. It's nice having someone who looks at you like she does, with love and caring eyes. When we were kids and our mothers talked silently and drank a lot of plum wine togheter, she looked at me just like that.

On her chest there was a perfectly placed brooch that made me think of one of mine, looking almost exactly the same, that had been given to me by my father on my fourteenth birhtday. You're a big girl now, and a very special one. Special girls need special jewelry and I still wear it sometimes. But not now, not infront of him. That would be to except him fully, and I can't do that. Not yet.

Miri wanted to see it, didn't believe me andso I took her home to dads house in Echo Park where there are chandeliers hangin from the ceiling and green velvet couches everywhere. I don't know why, but I think my father Frank thinks of himself as someone who inherited a lot of money. Maybe he did. It still wouldn't justify the fact that his house looks like the dinning room on Titanic. Although maybe it's fitting. He's sinking and so am I, into the dark and troubled water of a stormy past. After showing Miri the brooch she left, the cigarre smoke was overwhelming and she needed air. I went up the attic, put my brooch on and grabbed my favourit book, Bonjour tristessè. I'd had enough sun that day.