She was a sophisticated Jewish socialite with the personality of a princess on Zoloft. Her closet was full of Dior, Orchids, and cigarette smoke.........Virginia ultra-slim 100’s. We met on a dirty beach in Santa Monica and I distinctly remember the air being alive with the buzz of mating insects, power lines, yard sale chatter, and violent crime. We conversed so intently that we hardly noticed that the Apricot sunset felt ignored and the graham cracker coastline had crumbled nicely into the cartoon Blue sea. She had a reputation for hanging out in tool sheds, unkempt cemeteries, abandoned cars, Paris, Milan. She lived in Los Angeles with her roommate, a velvet painting of Josef Stalin with an AK-47 strapped to his back petting a Siberian Tiger. She had a calculated innocence and despair that went deep into Blue beyond the reach of Pfizer, Bristol-Meyer, Merck or psychoanalysis. She would say to me, “the price of passion is no passion and nothing dates quicker than fashion.” Our first date was at a Black market steak house on La Cuenga ran by a family of eccentric cowboys from Argentina. We talked for two hours about why people should never pass gas in restaurants that take reservations cause a forty dollar steak should be enjoyed without the compromise of flatulence prowling through the air. “One fart can ruin a meal. The Earthy citrus notes grandfathered in the California soil characterizing the wine I am trying to honor is ruined.” Holy Shit! She tells me about the time she was arrested for practicing witchcraft in a Boston suburb. She spent sixty days in jail and wrote pocket novel called “Marine Sulphur Queen” on rolling papers. The book was about an aging dancer addicted to the spirit of youth. After a mysterious boating accident and subsequent coma, she is able to communicate with inanimate objects and hold her breath for an hour. It didn’t sell well despite favorable reviews. There was even talk of Merchant Ivory or the Weinstein Brothers buying the rights to the book and Natalie Portman expressed in an interview that she was a fan and would be interested in the lead role. We used to sit in the sun eating dried fruit under a lone tree full of invisible Bluebirds singing “America, the Beautiful.” “Your aura smells like burnt rubber.” She laughed. I replied, “you have cheap emotions but name brand beauty.” We hung out in San Pedro a lot and fed rice krispy treats to sharks and read Bukowski to each other with our hands in one another’s back pockets. It was there that she told me; “ Look, I probably love you but I can’t tell for sure. I’m totally trying too hard.” “I’m really too nervous right now to care for you the way you need me to anyway.” I replied. I remember the way she looked at me like I was an empty chair. It made me feel like a cigarette butt. I knew by that look that she had wandered off upstairs and was thinking about her family who had joined a lunatic fringe old testament death cult while she was away at school and committed suicide in a New Mexico mountain range mid winter via laced Sunny D. “People kill themselves everyday. The problem isn’t any worse just because you know some of them.” I said. I loved her in a way I didn’t know how to with all my heart. When her hair smelled like lies and tasted like honey. When she always looked out of place like a Black olive on top of an ice cream sundae. I’m walking down a busy road with funeral grade flowers sticking out of my back pocket. Imagining her wearing headphones and Pink leggings on the stairmaster to heaven. Sweet dreams princess.