Daar was ze weer; de happy single. Iemand was over haar begonnen op Twitter, over dat ze niet bestond, en direct dartelde de ipottende 29jarige accountmanager met highlights door mijn Timeline. [...]
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It’s Sunday morning, after class. My fellow yoga teacher and I have finished our cappuccinos. I steal the biscuit from his saucer and start to nibble. “My offer to you still stands you know,” the 50+ colleague confides in me. “You can still become my yogic mistress.” “I’m fine in my own backyard,” I smile weakly. A backyard where no one has set foot in for 6 months, and that is gearing up for a long cold winter. [...] The eyes are still black. Charcoal-like streaks cover his lower and upper eyelids. Mascara thickens the eye lashes that are no doubt already long and thick by themselves. “Remind me. Why did I agree to keep this make-up on?” The first words of the young man. He must be somewhere in his early twenties. “I’m small, coloured, and now I look gay.” [...] Last year. It’s my first time in New York City. A taxi brings me from JFK to my hotel. Traffic already dense in the morning mist. Sightseeing buses making early stops at every corner of the street, with vehicle-long advertisements on the side: C o u g a r T o w n. T h e S e x y N e w C o m e d y O n A B C. [...] |
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Copyright 2011 L.S. Harteveld. Design by AlfaBetty, code by Valentijn |
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