Que reste-t-il de nos amours

I want my next house to be The Slanted Door restaurant. And all those people that work there can visit now and then, but the customers will have to go.

My bedroom will be the bar lounge. The bed will be the soft black leather bench, the alarm clock the dj booth. My coffee in the morning will be a Preseco and elderflower elixir in a Champagne flute. There is no shower, but the restroom's trough sink with it's ginger scented soap will be lovely for a bath.

The tourists will gaze in wonder through the window at the lucky girl skipping around the burl wood tables in her nightgown, barefoot on the bamboo floor. The Alcatraz view behind them will seem much less interesting. The locals will drop their Cowgirl Creamery and Sur La Table shopping bags, trying their luck at the locked glass doors.

I'll sip my lemongrass infused gin cocktail, sitting in a big booth, and wave in between bites of daikon rice cakes and vegetable spring rolls with a spicy peanut sauce. The handsome bartender in his black t-shirt and Dickies will refil my water glass, smile, ask it there is anything else I desire.