Les Feuilles Mortes

The Paris Review?, Saul Steinberg, 1965

Just the other day, I saw a girl, on the street, in a Burberry trench coat with a pair of perfect cropped sweatpants underneath, low-slung patent leather flats afoot, and, crowning her look absolutely triumphant, a Paris Review tote. I'm certain she slipped upstairs, to a spare apartment, where she listens to Juliette Greco records and smokes slim cigarettes on a white-sheeted mattress on a scrubbed and shining wood floor.