Translated by David Keplinger
I danced with virtuosity, swingingly, elegantly, with two gorgeous short-haired women, as if I were Gene Kelly dancing with a young Méret Oppenheim and her twin. But it was a trick, a grift, a con. The women were sponsored: “Brush with toothpaste from Halliburton,” they whispered tenderly as we danced more closely than ever. Now it is morning, and I stand in front of the mirror with my teeth smeared in oil. “Damn, you still look handsome,” I think to myself and wink, archly, at Dick Cheney in the mirror.