"Cool." Shoulder-length blonde hair flipped. Her lips lacquered on. A smooth, peach tint. Lipgloss cracked. She wore no jewelry. Pink-wheeled roller skates. She was short. No drink. Electrified. Some powder or another. A black beaded evening bag. Incongruous to her casual dress. Hung from her left wrist. She switched it from left to right. Nervous.
I'm Lena Cosentino. What you are about to read is true except when it's not. I'm an unreliable narrator. Some names have been changed but not all. Just to keep you guessing. The genre is autobiography/fantasy. This is a novel about a time and a place that doesn't exist any more except in my mind. Memory is a slippery mirror. Things change. Through the haze of memory. The mistakes of things I may have altered or left out or changed to make more dramatic. I tell the story of my early twenties in nineties Portland contrasted with my life in Los Angeles pushing forty in the late twenty-teens. The story begins in the fall in my senior year of college: 1997. I was twenty-one.
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