“How much is it?” she asked Antino Angel Crowley, one of Mr. Owens’s willowy, tattooed, beautiful employees. “It’s an apartment, right?”
“Basically,” Mr. Crowley replied. “It’s $65,000. Which isn’t bad, if you think about it.”
I tried it, and agreed: not bad. Actually, it was a poem.
“You wouldn’t need an apartment,” I said, half-joking. “This coat is like youth and sex and butter all at the same time. You could sleep on the sidewalk and you would never feel a lack. You wouldn’t even need love.” This coat might have humanized Leona Helmsley.
“Basically,” Mr. Crowley replied. “It’s $65,000. Which isn’t bad, if you think about it.”
I tried it, and agreed: not bad. Actually, it was a poem.
“You wouldn’t need an apartment,” I said, half-joking. “This coat is like youth and sex and butter all at the same time. You could sleep on the sidewalk and you would never feel a lack. You wouldn’t even need love.” This coat might have humanized Leona Helmsley.
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