I was driving home at three in the morning listening to the Flying Burrito Brothers. I cracked open the window, as if I were going to light a cigarette. The fresh air was nice. It made me think of you.
I could still smell the wine I spilled on my pants that night. Saint Matthews was quiet. The music was telling a story.
It was January. I ended up on the rooftop of his apartment at three in the morning in my underwear.
I will always remember the homeless man who smiled and called me Miss. He told me he liked my tattoo, as I turned right onto the Sunset Strip.
I accidentally took a wrong turn in Beverly Hills and wound up talking to a Kardashian-eque woman in a Land Rover. She needed help deciphering a text message, with a little help from a lost, sweaty tourist from Kentucky. I’m just trying to find this fucking restaurant.