Her name is Hope. She wears flowing bohemian dresses but walks with a strut good enough to shame any top runway model into early retirement. She loves animals and won't buy fur, but snuggles into the fox-fur collar of her mother's red winter coat at every opportunity. It's so soft, she says. She rarely dates, preferring to smoke pot on the weekends with her friends while they test out new restaurants. (The pitfalls to this method of gastronomic research became evident recently when she discovered her favorite little Thai place was not so spectacular without the influence of taste-enhancing drugs.)
She was born and raised in New York City, but Hope believes she lived in India in a previous life and would immediately know her way around if she were dropped in the middle of Jaipur tomorrow. She argues that her deep love of saris supports this theory; her friends argue her intolerance for spicy food refutes it.
Hope doesn't own a computer. She says laptops are too heavy for her to carry, and she's never in one place long enough to use a desktop version. She prefers phonecalls and face to face meetings to electronic communication anyway, she often protests. When she needs to type something up, she pulls out her grandmother's antique typewriter and her fingers positively fly across the loudly clacking keys. Hope thinks the sound is charming, and the neighbors in bordering apartments are enchanted by her enough to not mind when she decides she absolutely MUST type a letter to a friend at 3am on a monday morning.
Hope is the color of honey. No, she says, she won't elaborate on whether that refers to her eyes, her skin, her hair, or any other part of her. I just like describing myself as honey-like. Maybe I'm a little sweet and sticky, she says with a shrug. And maybe too much of me will cost you.
strawberry graham icebox cake
3 days ago