The text of a postcard purchased in a bundle at an Antique Market:
Jim:
At the rooftop bar in New York was a Russian Gansgter and his moll. She was drunk and trouble with a capital T. Big, black eyes, breasts the size of watermelons and proud, surging New Jersey hair. I leaned up against the bar near her as I ordered my over-priced drink, served to me by an aspiring actor who looked a little bit like David Duchovny. When I told him this, that he looked David Duchovny, his eyes lit up, “Do you work in the movie industry?”, he asked greedily, giddily.
I decided I would look at the woman, that I would look her in the eyes and see what happened. I figured that she would hold my gaze for a second or two, and then not registering any recognition, would look away dismissively, with contempt even, and reach out to hold her man’s arm. And so we looked at one another. Hey eyes brown and unblinking. Wet. This went on for about six seconds. One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three. A long time. Her facial expression never changed, betraying nothing, and after six seconds I looked down and away, defeated by a kind of honesty I knew nothing about.
Stay well,
Carter