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The Girl Who Reads
Letters From My Bed

I learned great literatures from the men I dated. One night in the Palisades opened up the world of Bukowski to me. A stockbroker introduced me to Thoreau. My bedtime story was once set in 19th century France about one Hervé Joncour who sells silkworm for a living. Another night, I read alone the adventure of a boy from Andalusia named Santiago. One third into the book, I fell half asleep but felt his soft fingers brushing lightly on the bridge of my nose taking off my Prada reading glasses dangling mercilessly  from my face. I remember thinking, if only he didn’t have to work so late … and I dozed off.

The girl who reads is sexy. Not in a nerdy way. In an intriguing way. Sexy should not belong only to women who abandon clothing in favor of skin. Sexy should also be reserved for women whose wit in seductive intelligence is cultivated from the characters of the greatest love stories ever written.

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

The Girl Who Reads

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