Nice - Day 3

I do remember being here but the pictures are torn and out of focus. Chloe and I spent a careless summer gambling on my mother's credit card until the bank called her and she cut us off. The first weeks we were constantly drunk on cheap red wine, I slept in a porcelain bathtub in an empty three bedroom apartment in Monaco-Ville.

Towards the end of August we relocated to Nice's old town and spent late nights together on the beaches, in the dark and the fumes from the alcohol and our cigarettes. People would come down from the bars after midnight, mostly older men that wanted to sleep with us. I remember a Moroccan writer (or so he said) carefully examining me in the moonlight and saying to me "you look like an opium kind of girl". That's where it started.

In another life: Venice Beach and the crashing of the waves, the silence that follows and the winds underneath our summer dresses. The voids in our hearts, the constant restlessness and the will to escape. When Henry holds my hand on the Promenade des Anglais it should be different but it's not and it swarms around us like insects.