by:
Jason Myers
www.instagram.com/jasonmyersbooks
“I wanna take you to Paris with me. For at least a month, which isn’t a long time if you think about it but it’s always enough time, ya know. Thirty days gets you a pretty good feel about everything. About all of this... and sometimes that.” I was trying my hardest that night to talk her out of breaking into my eyes and drawing herself on the inside of them. “I’ll rent us a flat in Canal-Saint Martin or maybe an apartment. I think my agent still owns a villa somewhere under its bleeding tissue and antique black lamps.” Her hair rose off her skin and poked into mine. “I’ll write a novella while we’re there. On a typewriter too. I swear. I’ll use one this time. That’s what’s next.” Truth is, I wasn’t even sure that I still had my agent’s phone number. Perhaps he’d gotten a new one. And perhaps, I wasn’t sure if she’d known this already or not.
