SmokeLong Quarterly

At a garden party in Mexico City one of the new girls said elephant when she meant eloquent. Our summer laughter, though polite, quickly dissipated. We took a tactful step away from her. She remained alone next to a yucca, looked down and sipped, tried not to leave any cherry moon™ on her crystal flute.

The owner of an important styling agency sidled up. ‘The new ones are always the most amusing,’ he said. ‘I adore their displays of slanguistic lipstick.’

‘You mean, I think, linguistic slapstick.’ I flashed him a smile of pure nude ambition™.

‘I know what I mean,’ he said, balancing his glass on an ornamental slave girl. My smile did not fade. Not when he turned and talked to someone else. Not when he made a remark about my foolishness that spread through the others. I joined my neophyte by her yucca, my nude ambition™ clashing with her cherry moon™. We could say anything we liked now but we didn’t. We studied each other’s poses and watched the show without a word.