This was not the first time I’d worn a small pattern on such a big load of a woman. The drabness of it seemed insignificant today, but the largeness gave way to moments spent feeling fucked in every direction, wayward and off balance though it is. Yes, I was admittedly stuck in the small pattern, a clumsy glob-shape that looked like an upside down caricature of Papa Hemingway, but that was no excuse for not driving hard and wearing the night big. As usual, I positioned myself in front of the lights waiting to be adored.

Eyes emptied, I walked down the runway for fashion week in Milan hawking the wears of Mr. Alborada with Papa’s beard rotating across my knees and outstretched across my ass. Bamboo arrows spiked across my uplifted hair, and yummy gold pointed shoes in place, I turned to tout a professional zombie-like pout. The crowd leaned in a second look, the critics leaned back a sigh, while I yanked a walk that was more for the carpet than the critics. This was a costume for the ages, one for the grandkids, a real glory story. I could say, “I looked like a goddamn voodoo-doll on the runways of Milan before you were even born.”

We walked down the runway behind the designer and waved to the few people who stayed to the end. Overall, the designs bid hello to the wonders of curtsies and tears dabbed away, and I stood well among the tall, unaffected by the wear. Did I say hello? I’m Catherine Wheel, no kidding, that’s my name. I was born tall and fair, well proportioned and able to handle a wide-angle shot.

I began modeling as a child. I have continued amongst the fashion world for the quick buck with my biggest moment coming when I had an advertisement hung in Times Square. That’s how I got a name and an agent. She gets me work for fashion week every year in Milan, Paris and London. I live well. Well enough to work only three weeks a year, supported by a book I wrote in college called The French Inhaler, about an ex-boyfriend who was a coke addict. Staged off-Broadway in the nineties, the play delighted fans and made enough money to buy me a home in Manhattan, and investments bought me the luxury of working so little.

I was working on my next book, The Life and Times of Mrs. Beermann’s Ex, and lied to myself that it was a peak amongst valleys, an arrow on track for its target. Believe me it was not. It had derailed its metaphors and failed the pages many words ago, the computer even kicked me out once. Fashion week only made me feel the failure of the loss of a dream, of a great second book. Yes, the last night of walk work was like a tornado shooting out my life in all-fucked directions, wayward and off-balance though it is. I am a writer, not a voodoo model, that’s the story of Catherine Wheel, hello, and I’m sticking with it.

I rented a small two-room loft in Milan in a familiar and secluded part that I loved. It was wondrous for the purple balloon that lingers in the town square all alone. At home was my Campbell, always up and waiting for me, with a sleepy, pensive smile. I qualified the night with history and dignified it by burying the details to hibernate in my heart forever, when Campbell asked how things went. Campbell announced he was ready to go home, back to Manhattan, and this is where the love I have for him runs deep and never ending: I refused to go with him.

I love Campbell Pressman for the sea he stirs inside me. He is what I call: my best friend, my best feed and my best fuck. Campbell seems ready to go home while quoting from his calendar, but nothing, not even Campbell, has that much power over me. Campbell is a good man, an independent actor with some great performances done, especially the embodiment of the great French Inhaler. Side story: yes, that’s how we met. Outside the Cascade Theatre in Manhattan after a Sunday afternoon performance, I had attended, and he had perfected.

I will always remember that day in front of the Cascade seeing Campbell there for the first time. He asked me to a late lunch and I agreed, pitching for a restaurant that served my odd favorite: half-a-cup of rough-chop, with a fresh cup of thyme tea to which Campbell replied, “I know just the place.” Campbell has dark hair, blue eyes and a chestnut charm the scent of which is an elixir to me. He is a shy, modest person about his acting and when he’s interviewed, he crosses his arms and curls his hands tucked up tight as if to speak learnedly, but just clears his throat wisely. The best part of him is that he can still walk through Milan and Manhattan believing that a permanent address makes his life secure. “This is the only option for me,” he’ll say. I just want to eat an apple tasting the dirt and dust on it, and know that it is not the only option. Cam stuffed his suitcase for the return while I ate the left over rough-chop and poured a fresh cup of thyme tea.