Nothin' to do but scratch words in the dirt and watch the water roll down

You all knew I was one, didn't you?

I didn't really think I'd been fooling anybody, not even myself. It's just that when I get a soft spot, it grows and grows and I find myself melted in a puddle on the sidewalk.

Like a Dairy Queen cone.

Thank you. I've just compared myself to something pale, sweet and sticky. Will somebody please tell me to wise up? That these soft spots are nothing more than illusions, and they'll be gone tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that?

Oh, but they won't. I have soft spots that date back to early childhood. The oldest is for the big full moon, another more adult one is for green princess-cut dresses. I had a soft spot for a green-eyed boy once, but that was so long ago.

We worked in the same record store. His name was George, and he was so cool. He said he liked my perfume, but it was the way he said it: low, inclined, like a secret. He turned up with a girlfriend a few weeks later. She was a tiny thing, pocket-sized; I remember. He and I stood nose to nose.

I wondered, after meeting her, does she wear it too?

Chanel No. 22.

before - after