meet layla
Layla has legs that stop traffic, like the ordinary stride of Lester’s steps that usually know nothing about yellows and reds. She whisks him with a linen swish on the corner of eighth that evokes the question, ‘Why don’t you let me buy you lunch?’ Layla drinks dirty grey goose martinis with her left hand and a temporary expectation of Lester saying something other than, ‘That’s a lovely watch, are you concerned about the time?’...