a documentation of my summers spent in Los Angeles over the span of four years

Last time she’d seen Lydia Antonia-outside Etienne’s mansion by the pool overlooking the city, surrounded by bougainvillaea and orange blossoms-she was oiling herself up with some sort of magic potion that cost $150 for a tiny tube and smelled like condensed eternal joy. She was forty and looked twenty and was naked and was not a mess. Her hair came down to her waist and it wasn’t a mess either.