We spilled more than secrets in that hotel room. Some wine, some coke, a box of yardsticks (.9144 meters).
Helene was there to teach me about the metric system.
Instead, we taught each other about love.
There’s little difference between the gaze of my admirers and the gaze of my enemies.
I am master of the game, a 19-time free market champion, the Scotty dog on top of the world.
I didn’t give a damn if it was in the middle of a war zone, I was going to that spa. I’d been there the month prior, before hostilities had broken out. Who ever knows what those little countries are going to do?
It had been relaxing, rejuvenating, refreshing — one of the last places in the world where you can get still highly trained piranhas to nibble off your thigh fat. I got the full French Colonist package.
There’s a certain feeling to a recently searched room. Suddenly, your possessions know more than you do, they’ve seen more than you have. Now your aftershave has secrets.
It’s impossible to hide the disturbance entirely. At Windom Falls, we don’t even try.
You try not falling in love with a spy. They know everything about you without any of the small talk. They’ve seen your dossier, they’ve tapped your phone, they’ve killed and impersonated your best friend for two years to learn everything they possibly can about you from beneath a very convincing rubber mask. […]
I like to be followed. Gives a gal a kick, you know? Spices up the hours in the minivan knowing you got a black sedan with diplomatic plates hot on your tail.