July 3, 2023:
"Silky," says our frequently drunken classmate and friend, describing sex with the very beautiful coed I'd dumped months earlier because she broke my heart one too many times. I gather he approved.
We'd had adventures. "Let's get a slope salad," he'd say, in Athens where we'd found a Chinese restaurant he liked. Or together at Sunion, where it took him all of 90 seconds to locate Byron's graffito. Or in the rain in Istanbul, or with The Jam at The Rainbow in London. "I'm Paul Weller's little sister," said the 17-year-old to the roadie at the door. "Tell him you'll be his little sister," said our friend. The comment was not well-received.
His mother is European bureau chief for a major American news magazine. I sleep on her floor in Brompton Square. He sleeps in his bedroom there. He has money to spend; I do not. This is eventually, inevitably, going to be a problem.