LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Eleana Kim

"My experience is learning, but not from you"

Even though he wasn't in her head. She slept with a book between the legs.
She who wrote tragedy out of anything remotely funny. Do not break the seal
until you are told to do so. Now they can both feel unremarkable.

She gristles at the word screenplay. Nictitations, short work in longhand,
thoughts in thick description. Bike chain slapping signpost. The smell of
band-aids that couldn't be helped. She can already see the tv in the
background of his inflammations.

We're all syndicated, and feeling more or less white male. Skirting
alterity, surfaces only when straddling a hardcover. He busts ghosts on his
off-time, plays golf on rice paddies, goes for a dip in the Gobi. The slap
on the bum stops there. More divvied-up space for the sake of comfort: one
hair's breadth for you, one arm's length for me.

The educated use of time. Where she enjoys herself in the kitchen, and the
many uses of orange peels. A book between the legs. The slap that brings you
back home and far out. In pursuit of the least common compromise, the
delusion with the most elbow room. Two characters. So it's drama. The
interior set in a lot.

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