She’s Not There

Lunette was a little dormouse of a girl, Parisian by birth, who lived nestled in a bed of dogeared books and empty teacups. She was so progressive she was round the bend back to regressive. Sex, she squeaks, is just a thing men need. If you care, let them take. She didn’t so I didn’t.
 

But I checked in on her as much as I could not that I wasn’t a lost soul myself. But occasionally when defeated I could crawl into her burrow amongst the perfumed laundry with a Sartre for a pillow and a fifth of brandy for a blanket.
 

Then one day I came bearing brie and absinthe and my heart in my shoe and her ex-husband was there. She still cared and he still took and I was politely shown the door. I retuned after a bender later but she wasn’t amongst the stacks anymore.