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Entry #10
2026
By Katilin Pignataro
In Le Marais last year ‘Dean’ asked me "faire une pipe?" He was quite beautiful in a sadfaced kind of way so I wasn’t offended honestly.
“No, no, sorry I’m married.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“You’ve got no ring.”
It was crazy hot and my hair stuck to my face and my face was so red, unsexy style, and my body was burnt up and I had really rounded out from all the butter and alcohol and I was conscious of that but also my boobs were pretty big.
I needed someone to grab me and shake me.
It was very early morning and we were sitting at some bar with an indoor smokers and all the interiors were yellow. A lot of ripped skinny jeans and low tapered fades and Aperol’s in my face.
The group I was with were too busy bickering with some some old French men about Giorgia Meloni and the FdI to notice what I was doing or if I was even there.
“Soooo.. you come back to mine? My father works in the theatre and he's got lots of books. He's an educated man”...
“and French men, they are so disgusting, it's very bad, you’re boyfriend, he doesn't care you are out?”
“No, I lied…that’s nice about your dad, though.”
“You can come over and look through everything, letters and everything.. you'll like it, he used to drive around Michael Jackson.”
I’ve asked this guy what his name is like 50 times and he's getting agitated I can tell. The thing is I do know his name, I just can't figure out how he's pronouncing it.
He’s making all the sounds I don't have and I just keep furrowing my brows. I ask him to spell it out.
Insane house. Parquet floors. Transom windows above huge doors. Chandeliers. We’re still in the 4th I think.
His dad really did have a letter from Michael Jackson, and cards with Fra Angelico angels were still left sitting on vanities, and a big photo of Fred Astaire hung on the wall. I wish I was famous, or at least in closer proximity like Dean is.
Around midday we walked through the Cour et Jardin de l’Hôtel de Sully and into the orangery, where it was hot and sticky and filled with mosquitoes. As he bent over a Citrus × aurantium to look closely at the interpretive label, I turned around and ran as fast as I could out of those gardens. Relievingly, I never heard from him again.