My gowns were gorgeous, I wore hardly any make up,
just some lipstick, that's all.
No lights,
just a baby spotlight.
I wouldn't have any entrance,
they'd play the intro in the dark,
then the spot would come on
and there I'd be.

- Claire Trevor in Key Largo

The boss, the boss
He can go to.....
Oh, hello darling!

- Claire Trevor in Key Largo

The gun wasn't loaded
he didn't stand a chance.

- Claire Trevor in Key Largo

A cocktail party ends, a beautiful French girl leaves before you've had
your chance to tell her about her luscious lips. The French have a sayingesprit de l'escalier,Which literally means the wit of the staircase. That artist of fantasy,
Marcel Duchamp, knows it all too well. It is repartee that one thinks of only when it is too late, the moment has passed, the guests are gone and the girl has left without ever knowing your name... without ever knowing that you were imagining her in the nude, although instead of the requisite amounts of bruises, and freckles, and flaws, her body was all gold filigree. Maybe it's better that way, the words may not have found their way, or perhaps they might have snapped in the ice cold air of rejection. This way you have the conversation like a laminated map, forever in your sporadically photographic memory. The wit of the staircase, the indelible impression of the night that never was. You are the judge and critic, the one who writes the history of non-action. Your companion says think nothing of it, but she's just jealous.

At adjacent angles
split skirts, t-straps, and cigarette holders
open mouthed awe
when women wore hairnets

The squeaky clean approach
a parting of the ways
diagonal do's