What killed me was the way she walked. She would pick up her feet like a cat in a litter box not wanting to step in its piss. Like a fawn trotting. It made her ass shake in that sheer little Wilma Flintstone dress and she knew it. She was “bubbly.” Friendly. She dropped a piece of ice and the host said it’s great to watch you bend over and she giggled like it was 1962 and no one ever got sued. She laughed in a way that let you pretend. You know she’s fucking some yoga instructor or some Russian guy for money but you can’t remember these things like you can’t remember the alphabet backwards when a cop’s shining a klieg light in your eyes.
It wasn’t a face that launched a thousand ships, it was an ass and that prefeminist giggle. You start thinking shit, I wish I had money. I wouldn’t dare get near that unless I was leaning out the window of a very expensive car. Guys want to be “producers” so they can get girls like this. You spend enough time slaying filthy Echo Park hipster ass that you forget, a couple zip codes away the girls look like on TV and charm you like pros. She lives in a West Hollywood apartment with healthy plants and a soft bed covered in fluffy white sheets and comforters that her little dog somehow never gets hair on and the toilet never breaks. She lives in a world out of Bed Bath and Beyond catalogs. A clean safe world you can never touch. Maybe she’s boring, but you see her pick up her feet and do her little fawn walk and her bubble ass is swinging left and right and every nerve in your being is screaming out that you have to have her and you can’t. It’s enough to ruin you for these swart flabby girls you meet, their crude daguerrotype faces like out of some old book about poverty. A perfect girl. A thousand ships launching into a million hours of soul crushing work and game and hustle and for a second you get it.