Lunar Park (Vintage Contemporaries)

The latte revived me to the point where my hangover seemed like something that had happened last week.

Jayne was thinner and did not say anything to me, which made me flash back to a time when we were so close that we could finish each other’s sentences. I wanted to tell her that I still loved her, but that was not what she wanted to hear.

But Jayne never understood that the Party had been my workplace. It was my open market, my battleground, it was where friends were made, lovers were met, deals were struck. Parties seemed frivolous and random and formless but in fact were intricately patterned, highly choreographed events. In the world in which I came of age the Party was the surfa

leave me shivering in the guest room, alone and afraid. But this is what a writer does: his life is a maelstrom of lying. Embellishment is his focal point. This is what we do to please others. This is what we do in order to flee ourselves.

It wasn’t that they weren’t concerned about their kids, but they wanted something back, they wanted a return on their investment—this need was almost religious. It was exhausting to listen to and it was all so corrupt because it wasn’t making for happier children. What happened to just wanting your kids to be content and cool? What happened to tell

“Hey, it’s part of my teacher’s oath.” Kissing her, I kept tasting lip gloss, which took me back to high school and the girls I’d dated when flavored lip gloss was the rage and I was making out on a chaise longue next to a black-bottomed pool in Encino and I was tan and wearing a puka shell necklace and Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time” was p