OCTOBER 12, XXXX

4:26 p.m.

The mime. The girl. The performance.

I remember every second of it.

Not because it was beautiful.

Because it was a grotesque.

He was dressed entirely in white—painted face, gloves, beret—the whole Chaplin-esque fantasy. She looked like she worked in fashion, maybe Calvin Klein, something dowdy beneath the sophistication, likely from Connecticut.