“I hate purses,” Apollonia sighed. “That’s why I have so many of them. I have a compulsion to buy them, and then I hate myself for buying them, and then I buy another one.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s a sickness.”
“Do you have a pencil?” I said, pulling out my pocket diary. “That particular gem is too perfectly twisted to go unmemorialized. It needs to be written down.”
“You’d better not put that online –“
“Too late, babe. Once you’ve said it out loud, it’s public domain.” I mimed a butterfly springing out of my mouth and fluttering around the room. “It’s everywhere now.”
“Great,” she grunted. “You’re a regular Hedda Hopper.”
“I take that as a compliment,” I said.
“Except," Apollonia said, her eyes glittering, going in for the kill, "that she was more attractive than you.”
And this is how we spend our idle moments.
It’s a pity that this witty banter is lost; that’s why I like to note it down.
And, kids, who even remembers Hedda Hopper anymore, except for Apollonia and me?
Happy Thursday.
(If you think of it, send Apollonia your old purses. She hates them. And, by that, I mean she loves them.)
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