A while back I had lunch with someone I am too close with to call her an acquaintance, but far from close enough to call her a friend. The lunch was at an upscale restaurant that she had suggested. This was in the country of my exile, her country of birth. We were seated next to a group of about ten people, gathered around a large table. Lawyers, I would have guessed, had someone asked me to. After all, I had been one myself. A very handsome man seemed to be presiding over the get-together. He threw side glances at me. I was wearing pants by Maison Martin Margiela (now called Maison Margiela, the unique quality of its fashion, following the appointment, at the time, of Gallinano as creative designer, having suffered a far greater reduction than the one third that the brand name conceded in number of words), a Dolce Gabbana embossed sweater, Michael Kors pumps. I wore my hair in a bun. I had not slept too poorly and my make-up had turned out well. Back then suicide of the calculated kind was on my mind constantly. I mentioned to my table companion that the situation was such that the rational option would be to put a stop to my life. The topic threw her. She left. I footed the bill. I drew $ 225 on my AMEX Gold. The table next to us had been vacated about an hour ago.
This may have been years ago. The photos in this post are from back then. I was living in a 2.7 mil mansion. I’m much stronger now, and my wealth is in a good place. The face has deteriorated, and the eyes’ deadness, spreading like a black fungus infection, grown more profound.