I order another drink. I feel like a goddess. I’ve made my decision: I will drink myself to death and tomorrow I will dye my hair. Maybe blonde, for a change. On my passport, it still reads your name. I said I didn’t love you anymore. I wanted it to be true, but I wasn’t sure. I still love you from this cheap hotel. What happened? Didn’t I treat you well? He is not a young man, but not quite old enough to be my father. I ask him what it’s like to have money and he says, “well, it’s murder.” Outside in the fresh air, I can’t walk, I’m so drunk. He laughs and says, “O, you young women. You dance too much.” You were staring at the floor when you said you didn’t love me any more. Goddamn, I love you madly. Goddamn, you treat me badly. I need money for my hair. I need money for my teeth. I need money for shoes that won’t deform my feet. There are bars where they like me. There are bars where they don’t. There are looking glasses I look nice in and looking glasses where I don’t. There are dresses that will be lucky and men that will make me happy and those that won’t and so on and so on and so on and so on. They come in a glass, these lovely little things. Give me more of this feeling. Give me fire and wings.