A beautifully bittersweet story by Countingducks. Here’s to the beautiful train wrecks: to the friends we couldn’t save from themselves and the mistakes we’ll never regret making.
Her face was like a map of the forgotten world or maybe just a nightmare, lined, creased and tired, but there was a quality of defiance about it which drew you to a second look. Those smoker’s eyes, I knew, were full of memories and insights, good and bad, blessed or wrapped in regrets and moments of euphoria created from a fabric of the finest chaos: drink, I suspected, was her refuge and her jailor.
I met her at a literary conference where the great and good rose and spoke on marketing and I, somewhat at a loss, had gone to see if I could finally get a sense of creative direction. She, it appeared, had been the first secretary of the main speaker some twenty years before and had been invited to attend the conference by him out of a longstanding loyalty. The guru had his wife and eldest…
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