I said goodbye to Grace Jones, whose Nightclubbing poster I’d only installed on the wall with Scotch tape a few days before. She stared at me as I stood there giving the room a final once-over. Her cigarette was tucked neatly into the corner of her full, gorgeous lips. Her stare laid my cowardice bare and her eyes followed me for the whole time I slowly closed the door. And when I did, when the latch clicked, I heard the Scotch tape give way from the wall, rendering her limp. I heard the poster tumble to the floor.
