Tonight I met a beautiful gypsy who may ruin me with desire. She is like me, but better. A fortune teller, a Vaudevillian, the former girl on the flying trapeze. We met at a garden party, and I could instantly hear the New Orleans funeral march tolling for me. I was done for. Red hair like mine, with a more womanly body. Could she be my June? Or my Anais? We talked all afternoon into the evening- of wine and film, of opera and salons, of cabbages and kings. She engrosses and inspires me. With more wine came abandon. Sitting so close on the sofa in the after-party bar, she stared at me and said she felt wild. Stunned and dumbly I asked, "Kissing wild?" and luckily (or perhaps pitifully) she responded "Exactly!" Like dizzy butterflies, we ran outside into a sprinkling rain and kissed up against the dark side of the building. Hand in hand like little children til her hand slid my skirt up the back of my thigh. Sadly our friends then exploded out the door of the bar. When her gentleman showed up, she asked "When will I see you again?" and kissed me more, in front of him and God and everyone. Desperate passion! Elation! Though a heart full of longing has weighed me down since...