now i know true

now i know true love

i have spent the last two hours hitting f9 repeatedly, trying to decide if i want the dock to magnify and to what degree, picking the speed on my trackpad, setting my desktop picture/color/fonts, and happily freeloading off a neighbor's generous wireless signal to correctly organize my bookmarks.

yes, folks, i have come over to the good side. and yes, i already put the free decal on my laptop bag.

viva la revolucion!

so fuck that deal

so fuck that deal we made before

just when i thought i'd lost the thread of what we used to share, and just when i'd resigned myself to the way things are now... you surprise me again. it's nice to know you were standing there all along. next time i'll look harder. thanks.

cupid is a straphanger

cupid is a straphanger

i will live a thousand years and love a thousand men and i will never understand the rules of attraction. what mystic force determines the subtle nuances between the moment you want to simply stand closer to someone and the moment you decide you want to rip their clothes off? what is it about the slightest hand gesture from a stranger in a cafe or on the street that makes it impossible to pry your eyes away?

yesterday i stood on the subway with a casual friend, having invited him down to a concert in the village. the downtown N was unusually crowded, consummate new yorkers suddenly thrown into tourist-mode by the recent subway changes. we held on to the same pole in an airless corner of the car and had an easy conversation about sailing. suddenly the train jerked and a wizened little woman shoved me out of her way and into my friend's shoulder.

i straightened up and smiled, and listened to him continue talking. but by then, i was close enough to notice the way his shirt collar was crooked, to notice the curl of the hair tucked behind his ear. but more than that, there was a smell. a distinctive smell that never fails to make me just the slightest bit lightheaded... soap and cigarettes. not cologne, not laundry detergent, not hair product or incense or any of the other million ways a man's smell can attract a woman. nothing draws me more than the smell of soap and camel lights. and he had it. clean skin and cigarettes. it reminded me of mornings, of post-shower sex, of holding hands in the front seat of a car in winter, of wearing his sweaters. soap and cigarettes is like intimacy and desire. there i stood, still chatting with him, but my mind had gone somewhere else completely. a million things that had never happened between him and i flashed through my mind and knocked the wind out of me, like the grinding movement of the subway itself.

usually the michievous god of romance is depicted shooting arrows. but it seems that in the big apple, when cupid snaps his fingers, trains jerk and a crush is born.

welcoming myself to the

welcoming myself to the 21st century

some of you know what a low-tech girl i am. when spending my money, i would much prefer a weekend at the beach to a PDA, dinner out with friends over new CDs, and lazy analog weekends instead of sitting in front of the computer on a sunny saturday.

but my complete lack of a computer at home has started to get frustrating. both for this blog, where i often find my greatest inspirations when keys are scarce, and for practicality. you know, law school applications, crossword puzzle help, finding the right restaurant for sunday brunch. the stuff the web is really for.

this desperate lack of a decent computer led me to compose this:

isn't that sad?

well, a few weeks ago, the pressing urge to find a miniature model of an airport and a plush-toy mouse was relieved. due to a great tax return and an even greater set of parents, the path to mac-vana was suddenly visible before me. and today, carefully and lovingly delivered at noon to our house in rhode island, is my very first apple:

fourteen inches. 933 Mhz. maxxed out RAM. forty GB. Airport card. plus an Epson 4-color printer with a flatbed scanner on top. pure apple bliss. all mine.

this weekend? forget boys. i'll be curled up in bed with fourteen inches of smooth white digital brilliance.

nothing ventured, nothing... what

nothing ventured, nothing...

what is it about love? what masochistic part of us keeps us coming back for more, or wanting what we don't have, when the rest of our lives are so fantastic and exciting that we'd barely have time for it if we found it?

i have a philosophy of love, and falling in it. granted, if my philosophy of love was a self-help book, it'd be a spectacular failure only referred to as "you can buy those to prop your table up with". nonetheless, i believe that my time and my friendships are valuable enough to me that the man who comes along to shift the sands of my life had better damn well rock the foundation as well. casual dating? waste of time. dating someone you have next-to-nothing in common with? a criminal waste of time.

i say the same thing, time and again: without exception, my friends are the most mind-blowingly amazing people i know. so if i'm going to change my life around to accomodate a man, he'd better live up to that standard of excellence. as a result, i barely make an effort to meet new men, i often preemptively reject strangers that flirt with me, and i never follow through on any of my half-hearted attempts to be more open to new people, or more trusting that love can be found in the strangest places.

this theory is starting to show its cracks. worse, it's starting to look like sour grapes. i mean it, every word, about wanting to be with someone who shakes my world - both the bed and the mind. but stubbornly believing that my friends are all i need is starting to look a lot like making my friends all i need to avoid being hurt again. to avoid standing on the curb, heart in my hands to varying degrees of broken, while someone finds a new trap door and disappears into it. to avoid the feeling that i gave someone everything i had, proudly unafraid to love, and they politely asked for their money back.

the truth is, i do want more. my friends are a phenomenal support structure but they're not the entire building. and i have to stop hiding behind the idea that the simplest kind of love - the kind i have with my friends and family - is ever going to be enough for me.

a few nights ago, it became impossible to ignore my own cowardice. there's a bartender, at a bar, who made us delicious cosmos, was quite frank in his quiet flirtation, holding my eyes a second longer than usual, lingering quietly a few feet from our conversation. did i slip away from my friends and have a chat with him? no. did i even tell him my name, even though he told me his? no. why not? because i was having fun with my friends, and too thin-skinned to exchange the usual comfort of acceptance for the sharp wind of the unknown. why? scared. lazy. suddenly, inexplicably, first-time-in-my-gregarious-life ... shy.

so this weekend, i'm going to do something that every safe-seeking molecule is screaming against, pulling frantically back from. i'm going to that bar. for one drink. alone. don't get me wrong. i don't actually want to go. but i keep remembering how sweet his smile was, how surprisingly non-sleazy it was when i felt him watching me, how very much i wished i was the kind of girl to kiss a random bartender as a thank-you for the delicious cosmo. typically, i did nothing about it, much to the dismay of my encouraging friends.

so i will go into that bar, will have one of that bartender's absurdly good cosmos, and i will let myself consider the possibility that a complete stranger could, eventually, blow my mind.

nothing says spring like...

nothing says spring like...

...fresh strawberries. they taste of newborn springy grass, streaming patches of sunlight, and cool breezes. so today's le bakery, starting a bit late because our chefs were eating strawberries, will be nothing but fruit concoctions. order up your tartes, your meringues, your sorbets... and snozberries are most definitely allowed. even encouraged.

and yes, the wallpaper will be lickable.

fruits away! we serve at noon.*

* and by noon, of course, i mean thursday morning, due to a catastrophe with the lemon meringue and some exciting distractions elsewhere.

one side of romance,

one side of romance, hold the cliche

i've never been the sappily romantic type. i got a lot of hurt looks from my guy friends this weekend when i begged them not to get roses for their girlfriends, desperately trying to explain how flowers should be a thoughtful indication of the girl's personality, not the first thing on display at the deli. living in new york, it's easy to toe the line and take a girl to a nice restaurant, an opera, the ballet, snore, whine, bolt.

i haven't really met the right guy yet, the guy i'll love even more than i love this city. but they've got to go hand-in-hand. for instance, he'd:
...take me to the driving range at chelsea piers on a rainy day.
...know exactly how to get to that one part of roadway where you can see the planes roaring in to land at laguardia.
...never rush me when i stop for ten minutes to listen to a street performer.

and most of all, he'd:
...solve my bad day blues by picking me up at work with a flask of liquor in his coat pocket, take me to ride the staten island ferry, and play the time-honored "what's their really dirty secret" passenger guessing game.

now that's romance.

groundhog be damned i

groundhog be damned

i believe in the power of positive thinking. that's why pH has just gone total spring revamp in the middle of blustery february. think spring, and there's spring.

enjoy.

update on continued hiboux empire: last week's series and its charming design are now permanently housed over at hiboux quatre and le deuxieme hiboux also recieved a spring cleaning.

part four ... The Present

here is a small dried flower from a walk you went on, across the entire city, from midnight until dawn.

here is the catch in your throat when you hear her sing the songs she's written, even when they're not for you.

here is the list of places you made together, that you'll one day visit, down to the minutae of hotel room prices and attractions you want to see.

here is the funny way she pronounces the word "crayon" and the way her eyebrows arch slightly when she's applying lipstick.

here are his keys on your keychain, here are yours on his keychain.

here is the cup of coffee she makes you every morning, buying that gross fake creamer because she knows you secretly love it but would never admit it to your other friends.

here is the curl at his temple that simply refuses to join the rest of his hair.

here is the way she answers the phone, inflecting her 'hello' exactly the same way every single time.

here is the tip of his tongue, that sticks out the left side of his mouth when he's working at his drafting table.

here is the tiny furrow in her brow, the shadow that crosses her eyes, when you make her angry in public.

here are the the truckloads of one-word exchanges that signify the important events in your life - the shorthand of your knowledge of each other.

here are the exhausting tears that come from fighting, and here is the unique kind of nauseating pain that surfaces at the thought of losing someone.

here is the moment you wake up, open your eyes, and see yourself reflected in someone else's.

here, this is love. except, there is no perfect love. the future always looks rosier than it turns out to be, and the past leaves scars that defy the very definition of the word 'past'. the present, that minute, is the only thing that can really live up to the expectation of perfect love. anyone who says they haven't loved... hasn't looked hard enough at the tiniest of movements, the simplest of actions, and found what they're looking for.

there is no formula. no one is perfect. nothing stays the same. except your little batch of quirks, and words, and memories, and intimacies. so here. this is love. enjoy.

part three ... The Future Perfect

she'll meet him during her off-year, when she flees to another city and lives with some crazy friends of hers in a mid-twenties attempt to recapture the wildness of youth. he'll be dating someone else, someone completely wrong for him. she'll know it the minute their eyes lock across the room, the two minutes he helps her with her bag. they will look into each other's eyes and see a kindred spirit. her friends won't believe this is possible, she who is so afraid of love. but when she says his name on the phone to them, they'll know he's the one.

"are you two together?" her friends will ask.
"no," she answers, with a new depth in her voice, a new honeyed dimension to her quiet southern accent.
"so what is it?"
"we're friends," she'll say. but she'll hear his voice coming down the hall over any other din. he'll seek her out at every party. he'll stand next to her, dangerously close, just to smell the clean freshness in her curly hair or to see the way she fiddles with her collar, rubbing the point between her thumb and middle finger. they will not be able to divert the current of electricity between them.

she will be torn between her privacy, her natural reticence, and the lure of his companionship. he will be torn between the girl he's dating who doesn't understand him, and the girl he's not dating who knows the words before he says them.

they will sit at a kitchen table together in the waning summer heat and drink countless beers. they will talk about their childhoods. they will offer to drive each other on errands, only to experience the forced intimacy of her tiny car. skin will brush against skin when they pass each other. the ticking clock in the dingy kitchen will mean more to both of them than the mere passage of time.

one night, at a concert, with the ever-distancing girlfriend a mere ten feet in front of them, he will turn to her. his hand will be on her small, firm shoulder.

"i have to tell you something," he will say as his voice cracks under the strain of being both quiet and loud at the same time.
"no," she will respond because she knows what he wants to tell her. she will move away because she's afraid. but these fears can't last long.

perhaps they will finally kiss in the parking lot. perhaps it will be at the grocery store on another contrived errand. perhaps, they will find themselves driving far away from the town they live in, distance themselves from their daily life to build up the courage to fall into each other. it will happen with the delicious clasping satisfaction of two magnets finally allowed to click. perhaps he will hold her small, porcelain face in his guitar-calloused hands and find it hard to breathe. perhaps her eyes will well up with the kind of tears she rarely allows herself to cry.

one thing is for certain in this future she does not yet know. that first kiss will be completely unavoidable. it is written the moment she walks into that room and sees the light in his eyes. the moment he saw her push her glasses up by touching the corner with the knuckle of her forefinger, a gesture which will reduce his heart to shreds in its delicacy and subtlety.

one thing is for certain in this future that none of us know. they will fall in love. it will be inconvenient. painful. complicated. emotional. but it will be the first kiss to end all first kisses and they will live happily ever after.

for beth and josh, my greatest inspiration

part two ... The Conditional

he talks quietly on the phone, this late at night. his voice is always scratchy from cigarettes and whiskey. she know he's in bed because she can hear his beard rustling against the pillow.
"tell me more about the Weekend," he asks. how many times have they talked about this, she wonders. but the stories and promises have, so far, kept them happy together with seven thousand miles separating them.
"we'll lock the door," she starts.
"mmhmm."
"and kick my roommate out for the weekend."
"we'll just have a couple delivery menus and some beer."
"and sex," she adds.
he laughs - his voice always goes up an octave with his laughter.
"and sex," he says. "lots of sex."
"eleven months worth of sex."
"it's been that long?" he asks.
"it will have been, when you come home."
"jesus," his voice sounding sad, "that's too long."
"well," she reminds him, "when you left, it was supposed to be forever."
"when I left, I didn't realize how terrible it really is to be alone."

her mind snags on this, still disbelieving his affection, still unsure that he could possibly mean the wealth of caring and faith he's shown. she probes, knowing any minute it could go too far, she could ask too much, and his openness would dissipate like tendrils of steam.

"well, and now?"
"I don't want to be alone any more. I'm tired of the hermit act. I want to be there for someone. and I think I want it to be you."
"and our weekend of sex," she jokes, bringing it back to the light side, knowing his boundaries.
"and our weekend of sex," he replies, with smiles in his voice. "we can just stay in bed the entire time."
"no internet," she says.
"no phones."
"no friends," she says.
"no television."
"just food," she laughs.
"and sex. and cigarettes."
"and the ny times." she says.
"nah, the paper is distracting," he points out, "from all the sex. how about just NPR. you have a radio in your room, right?"
"yeah."
"it'll be perfect. and can we be naked the entire time?"

she pulls a drag from her cigarette, and closes her eyes, gathering memories of their last few nights together, before he left. when it all came tumbling out in the desperate flood of goodbye. the way he first kissed her on the couch, electric. how he resisted her body out of confusion - awkwardness - and then pulled her in to him, him endearingly wild-eyed, and sank into their first time together. the way his legs entwined with hers when they finally slept, his furrowed brow in the morning, his arm stubbornly locked around her waist, hand on her belly.

she breathes out smoke, hearing his mouth take a drag of his cigarette.
"of course we can. it's our lost weekend. we can do whatever we want," she replies.
"yeah. I can't wait," he smiles.

part one ... The Past Progressive

he sits across from her at the tiny sun-dappled table but his legs are long and they sneak under her chair. for her part, legs are crossed, her ankle bone resting lightly against his shin. the only contact. the coffee mugs before them have been drained, but periodically she picks up hers, tipping it back to lick some of the sugar from the sides. he watches her pink tongue flick into the mug.

"so how's old new york these days?" he asks. his long arms stretch out across the table, his chin tips up and his back arches the slightest bit - a habit of his she is well familiar with, something he never realizes he's doing, as if refocusing himself into the room.

"the same as it was when you lived there. it's good to get away," she smiles, tapping a cigarette out of the pack, leaning in and shoving a curl away from her face as she lights it on the little red candle. she's inches away from his hand, palm-down on the table. he almost lifts it to hold her hair, she sees, and he thinks better of it.

"take those ridiculous sunglasses off, we're indoors," he says. she pushes them to hold back the curls and smiles at him.
"it's sunny in here," her eyes scan the little cafe. she takes a long drag and curls the right side of her lips, letting the smoke out towards the open window. he almost regrets asking her to lift the shades, now being subjected to the full force of her liquid brown eyes. the first thing he really noticed about her, years back.

"remember," he starts, picking up the thread of the little game they play when they meet again, once a year like clockwork, "the time in your hallway?" she grins a cheeky smile back.
"it was before we went to that salsa club," she prompts.
"you were wearing that red thing, with the strap around the neck."
"the halter dress. and heels. and nothing else."
"right. and that nook, in your hallway-"
"you broke the mirror hanging there," she laughs. he's glad she still doesn't care, after all these years, about the mirror they broke.
"well, you had your legs wrapped around my waist, I didn't have the best balance," he countered.
"you held on just fine," she grins, remembering the strong way his hand always cradled the back of her neck.
"and you pulled my belt out of my pants, remember?" he asks.
"yeah, well, you undid the only hook holding my dress on."
"that was something else, that nook in the hallway. you almost tied me to the coat rack with my belt."
"it would have been fun. then I could have done whatever I wanted," she laughs again and his eyes narrow through his glasses, just once, like a bird flying past a sunbeam.

"to be fair, we shouldn't talk like this," he says, his eyes less searching and open than before. his hands pull back off the table, his chin tilts up again, the shift is all but physically tangible.
"I know. they're just memories."
"and you're the keeper of them."
she doesn't answer.
"but I've got the car, it's outside," he smiles at the thought of her hair flying in the wind, zipping around the city's tiny streets again in that car - she was always terrible with the stick - "and we can stay at our old place."

it's nice, she thinks, looking at his long lazy body and rumpled clothes, these once a year reminders. the red dress is gone, the nook in the hallway long occupied by someone else, someone undoubtedly less passionate and crazy. but the car, and the time of year in their city, and the cobblestones gleaming with fresh rain -

"let's go, then." he sees the playful flicker her delicious eyes once more before the sunglasses come down and the cigarette is extinguished. outside, the car is waiting.

you've got a sentimental

you've got a sentimental side as big as kansas

that's what a particularly unsentimental boyfriend once told me. granted, i'm sure at the time he appreciated it, since it was largely directed at him. but i've definitely been taken to task for my soppy hallmark side before.

i know i often show myself to be this urbane, witty, sometimes even callous city girl. but we all know how blogs can be selectively decieving. my real friends will tell you ... i cry at the drop of a hat and always have. in fact, i've only been through one breakup in my entire life where i didn't cry. when i was younger, my father called it "theatrics", which i found the height of insulting and unfeeling, seeing as how not only was i incapable of faking the tears, i couldn't have stopped them if i tried.

when i get really sad, i start to feel the prickle and it's a gradual process to full-out sobbing. but when i'm angry, they simply well up and fall out of my eyes, splashing on my red angry cheeks. i don't sob when i'm furious. i'm too angry yelling or cursing or attacking. incidentally, these baby browns turn a fierce hazel when i'm crying.

but the most common variety of tears these days are the soppily sentimental kind. in order to disprove any whispers that i'm constantly fierce, detached, and slashingly funny, i present:

the top ten things that have made OR will make me cry almost unstobbably

10. international travel customs lines, particularly in third world countries, particularly since i started smoking.

9. charlotte's web. every time.

8. children in pain.

7. almost any dad-and-daughter commercial. really. seriously. i cry like a baby.

6. the time my lifelong companion teddy bear, bow bear, came out of the dryer without his eyes. i screamed until my mother came and pinched the hysteria out of me. his eyes had simply migrated to the back of his head. I WAS SIXTEEN. corrollary incident: when i forgot bow bear at home and had to travel for the first time without him. I WAS TWENTY.

5. when any of my friends cry. when my mom cries.

4. judy collins' open the door.

3. billy joel's vienna.

2. being thanked for almost anything. getting flowers.

but the number one thing that makes me cry without fail is ...

1. everytime shiv sings her ballad about leaving new york - "right mistake". for those of you who have read His Dark Materials [the pullman trilogy], i can imagine what lyra felt like when pan was separated from her. maybe new york is my daemon.

so ... if you ever think, "perhaps i'm not emotional enough" or "my therapist tells me i should cry more", just remember: somewhere in the world, i'm probably crying enough for the two of us.

smokin' hot money who

smokin' hot money

who says being a consummate smoker doesn't eventually pay off? well, doctors, but let's ignore that for a minute. i just got recruited, outside my building, for a smokers focus group, convening next week. i suppose i'll tell them how i smoke in the face of adversity, how i can no longer legitimately criticize the massive tobacco industry, how i laugh in the face of disease...

all to the charming tune of $150. tell that to my blackening lungs.

bienvenue, mes chouettes! le

bienvenue, mes chouettes! le bakery is truly living up to its name today, featuring a delightfully lazy gaulic attitude, a penchant for cigarettes and coffee, and every delicious french pastry you can imagine. being unable to fly to paris for the weekend and pass langorous afternoons with a bottle of wine, a baguette, and whichever tomas, richard, or henri is available, i've brought a little france home.

*le ding* so many of you, all at once! come in, rid yourselves of scarves and troublesome coats, my souschef le biscuit will show you where to put them. we've made absolutely tons of fresh croissants, some avec fromage et some avec chocolat suisse! take your pick, le gopi, the mysterious janna, and le devlyn. sit over there with le tcwh and le D, who's having his with lovers almonds. is that le gordon i see? well, he can have two pain au chocolat, since he came all the way from england.

and yes, mes amis, there's a large pitcher of orangina right here on the counter. we'd never let you eat your delicious homemade croissant-y treats without some artificial orange drink! that's for you, neil, and here's your pralines creole. still shy, eh?

ahh, look here, the real francophiles. le kate, plain refusing pastry, drinks her espresso and smokes her les missiles!cigarettes with the appropriate amount of intellectual disdain on her pretty face. she's chatting up my dear le matthieu, who's a man after my own apple-loving heart, eating a chausson aux pommes, drinking cafe au lait and smoking a cigarette at the same time. who's that sour puss over there? ahhh, le jason, who mocks our moon-language, but nonetheless is more than happy with my delicious chocolat chaud.

look! a couple of tarts! no, really. le tammi is enjoying our special tarte aux fraises while le stephanie wholeheartedly "bahh, ouai!"s my tarte meringue au citron. le daniella, on the other hand, is enjoying a different kind of tarty lad ... some petits financiers. she really can't help but giggle.

but who's that dashing redhead with the pealing laughter? a perfect creme brulee brings the sparkle to our le shivette's eyes. and while the valiant brendan rifles through the pastry cabinet for the ultimate dessert, la femme francaise, i'll sit down right here with le mark and steal a few of his perfect, delicious, sugar-dappled petit madeleines. and a cigarette.

salut!

zut alors! the theme

zut alors!

the theme for tomorrow's le bakery is toutes les choses francaises [all things french!], thanks to d's charmingly french post.

mesdames, messieurs, a votre service ... le bakery!

letter to the editor

letter to the editor

i, like many brave americans, have been recently afflicted with "the worm". the email kind. a dear stranger, "sean", decided to alert me of his own opinion regarding, apparently, this worm. i print his charming missive in full:

THANKS FOR THE VIRUS ATTEMPT JACK ASS. CLEAN YOUR ACT
UP BITCH. YOU BETTER HOPE I DON'T KNOW YOU
PERSONALLY...CAUSE I'D LOVE TO KNOCK YOUR FUCKING HEAD
OFF...AND THEN SHOOT YOUR ASS YOU FICKIN PIECE OF
USELESS SKIN!!!!!!!

dear "sean":

we appreciate your concern that we've somehow transmitted a virus to your computer. since your whereabouts are unknown, we cannot dispatch our "thank you messenger" with the "token bouquet of flowers" and our "sincerest apologies". by "thank you messenger", of course, i mean "joey from brooklyn". the "token bouquet of flowers", of course means "joey taking a pink baseball bat to your kneecaps". and please understand "our sincerest apologies" to imply "please go fuck a chainsaw".

warmest regards for your impending destruction and slow recuperation,
krissa

"we were on a

"we were on a BREAK."

my love of new york is somehow inextricably linked to my love of blogging, it seems. last monday, the naked city and i had a fight.

krissa: "i SWEAR TO GOD, take that sour look off your face and warm up a litte, or we are turning this city around and going to alabama."
city: ... blows more cold air in face.

this week, it seemed nothing i did brought the city around to my side. i pleaded, she gave me cold shoulders. i pouted, she dropped the windchill a couple degrees. i stomped my foot, and slipped ass-first on her ice. finally i yelled, and she dumped about a foot of snow on my head. it was becoming abusive.

and through this, i couldn't blog. i just didn't feel like it. blogging is the intimacy i share with new york, it seems, and i wasn't feeling particularly intimate this week. you could say the city tapped my shoulder and i said, "not now, baby, i have a headache. and frostbite."

so i did what any spurned lover in a healthy relationship would do. i slammed the door and got out of town. came home to rhode island for the weekend, as if to say, "i love you new york, but if we don't get some alone time we're going to kill each other." i spent yesterday and today lounging around in the arms of my other lover, the comfort of home. eating whenever i want to [the fridge is always full], watching movies [my lover has cable] and sleeping late [there are no alarm clocks in this tryst].

hopefully now, i can go back home, back to my one true love, and we can begin the peace talks. i'll say i'm sorry, i'll try to look up at her tall buildings and her magestic urban beauty and whisper all the right things. between you and me, i think she's just pissed that i'm going to brasil without her, but this lover is a temperamental, fickle creature so i won't push any buttons.

so i'll try to love her again. maybe flowers? maybe chocolates? maybe promises i don't intend to keep? how does one win back the affection of the cruelest, most intoxicating woman in the world?