A Hack Dies in Venice

Being born a 17-year-old girl trapped in a baby’s body is no way to begin a life. That is why she was born a baby trapped inside baby’s body and aged accordingly with the natural passage of time.

In spite of the normal way her cells multiplied and died, she is both a vision of the future--like robots powered by rap music--and a memory of a past life--unknowable because life begins at conception and not in the past.

She is naked even when fully clothed.

She recalls a song, one that I have not heard but I’m pretty goes like this: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE  Ah the key of E. Romantic to ears of laymen but violent to the refined aural palette.

She enters the story by water taxi. Venice.

The city reeks of Thomas Mann metaphors for death until she arrives. The stench is replaced by her new fragrance endorsement. It is as delicate as America’s relationship with family restaurants. It hints at a promise of happiness and togetherness yet only consistently delivers on curly fries. It is ravishing even when she reveals that a bad ragu from the night before has given her the baddest bout of gas since starring in last summer’s smash hit Sideblind, wherein she captivated audiences as a woman who prevailed in inspiring millions by the sheer whiteness of her skin. If there is a lesson to be learned here, it is that a flatulent femme is no less fatale.

We sit down, coincidentally back at the scene of the bad ragu. As a precaution, all she orders is 3 ounces of lemon juice. She dismisses the server with a thank you and her eyes, painfully blue eyes, lock on to me. When they do, all time stops. Her eyes are huge and alien. Her head, on the whole, is also huge and alien. Too big for her narrow shoulders and impossibly skinny waist, which, now as I recall it, also seems alien.

Are you an alien? I ask her.

She laughs, but only out of politeness, as all good princesses and pilgrims should.

No she replies in a manner so effervescent that I nearly pour out my prosecco fearing that it’s turned to piss in the presence of a reply so pure.

In spite of all the ways being in her presence reminds that nothing burns hotter or brighter than a celestial body, there is a darkness looming. Few starlets have followed in Roman Polanski’s footsteps, and by that I am referring to not letting life as a fugitive get in her way of making great art and nothing more. Life on the lamb has turned her into something beyond celebrity. Messiah? Lady Madonna? A beaujolais blended with a cabernet wrapped in an enigma?

I don’t want to ask her about her weight directly so I hint at it, asking her if it was hard to find a man at her current size.

Her legs, long and uncrossed like a third wave allongée, slid from underneath the table. I can’t help but marvel once she stands, looking like Venus in all her glory, propped up by two Chanel leather foot spears. Did she take two steps towards me? She must have, but who can really say with confidence that her strides aren’t really glides?

She leans over me, using the change in light to become an Audrey Hepburn mirage. Our own little Roman holiday in Venice of all places. And as I fell under the apparition’s spell of defining feminine glamour for all of fucking eternity, she stuck a shiv right into my sternum. Ouchie.

Now that’s what I call a Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I quipped. Were you in that movie?

She paused to think a moment, said goodbye and caught a gondola to the next non-extradition country on her conquest.