The west is overrated, except as it becomes an expanse, Pacific or the Gibson Desert. Mirrored sunglasses also.

The motorcycle police have a bratty quality, as if pouting on account of the loss of their horses.

(She can't help smiling at the remark. Though it is not quite a quip really. The situation-- the set-up-- not as clear as it might be at first. You have to imagine the high cavalry boots and the chapped trousers, then consider the notion that someone has slipped their horses from under them and replaced them with Harleys. It's a funny idea when you finally arrive at it, but with this fellow everything, jokes and seductions alike, arrive as if in translation. Like the names of discos in foreign cities. New York Jivetime, Rock Show Bar, Good Times Deluxe.)

"Do you like to tan?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter," he says, "As long as you are consistent. Either tanned or stay out of the sun altogether. One may look like whiskey or like ivory, like you do. What's awful is when someone looks like a parfait, bleached boobs and another ribbon of white at the waist and hips, raccoon eyes."


The rhythm of these sentences already seems to veer toward the preciousness of certain avant garde exchanges or the voices of children, singsong voices looping in upon each other.
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