Tahitian Chicken Curry with Coconut 2025
She had a thing for Tahiti;
that’s the hell of it. She’d no clue
what it was like. She’d seen photos
of beaches, figured that’d be
the life for her: endless sunshine.
Not this dull place, this sullen place.
She couldn’t have known. It doesn’t
make her the moron that buddy
boy suggests she is, hell-bent to
blow whatever popsicle stand.
Intellectual lacking, he says. Hers,
not his. He thrives on it, on the
notion of devotionlessness,
if that’s even a word. A lack
of devotion to you, he means.
According to him, she’d have picked
anything: the Caymans, Fiji,
New bloody Zealand. She wished to
be flighty. Less about her, more
about you. Luckless as ever.
And that guy she admired, what’s
his name, the Route 66 guy
romanticising a bum who
was an intellectual, don’t
you know, scoffing at foppery.
Buddy boy doesn’t like this, though
we picture the two of them with
bindles, living their best life. She’d
teach him. Can you help a fellow
American down on his luck?
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