For two weeks, Girly nodded no matter what people told her. Girlyless. Open on Dirk, open to Dirk. This is what the Girlies are doing now. Packed in Girly’s Ford Escape. Write that down. As we speak, the girlies are likely bathing in tubs of foreign perfume, their well-shaped skulls smug behind face masks of avocado and whale fat, their long black hair full of magic mayonnaise. A gold and orange toga from Tall Girl that shows fucktons of shoulder, her best sex asset according to the goat she met in the mountain caves of her mind during a recent guided meditation — your shoulders are hotter than tits, the goat told her, told her in Goat, which Girly, it turns out, can speak. Men, where are the men? A place where there are primeval forests and they still play Billy Idol in the dance bars. These are the potential names of the men that she will meet in the mountains according to the Ouija board she consulted the other night after consuming two thirds of a bottle of half-the-calories Chardonnay. If the mouse living in Girly’s kitchen could talk, she is certain it would tell her, You’re hot. The whispers go not just in her ears, but into every pore of her skin, through the Dead Sexy lotion she rubbed into every surface and nook of herself, through the Ivory foundation two shades too pale for her face. Looks through the window at the smoggy intermountain west sky. Her eyes sifting the dark for any man-shaped shape. It’s Freudian. What does she mean she can’t do it? “Next week. Uh-huh. Is it Turkey? Her skin is sweating Oakridge Chardonnay. For all the nights when she hung out on the sawdusty edges of things, the action, the bar, the dance floor, the board room, the water cooler, the clusters of humanity, nodding, trying to laugh along, watching other people talk and twirl each other round and round, watching other people open up for each other like flowers in the morning, while with Girly they always remained closed shut.
The night arrives and Girly has done what she will refer to all evening as All the footwork here. This was meant to be a secret tryst between herself and the universe. She grunts back at Bear.
To drive to the mountains, you must drive through them, down the icy road which winds like a reptilian tail. Oh for sure. In a way that it involves Eastern Europe and a straight iron. She is so exotic looking! But this is a different experience. They are the whisperings of the universe. That’s when she feels Bear grunt something like ook! Girly, hearing this call from the universe, sets down her large lipped glass of Zinfandel, which sloshes and spills onto her white wicker end table, her fanned out goddess cards. We’re going to fuck now, it growls into all of her body pores which have all become little ear whorls, in tune with the universe’s murmurings. Wait. When I come back, you’ll have a whole new Mother. Doesn’t need to. The girlies know how to look hot in a way that Girly does not. I brought this, the girly said, holding up a dog-eared copy of The Sorcerer’s Stone. And lo and behold, the little wandy indicator thing began to move about in figure 8s. Bad Girls Go to Cozumel was the T-shirt Girly bought them all so they’d have a fashion memory of the green sea and the white sand and those suns like busted peaches over the water. Now her slinky dark dress is falling off her sharp shoulder, she is rocking on her heels like she is on a violently swaying boat not a concrete floor. She has had all of her body hair pulled out by the root with wax-smeared popsicle sticks. They are kind sentences about herself that the HR woman at her work told her to write down and repeat as often as necessary. Where are the mountain men? Girly. Her purity of spirit which her mother used to say shone through her every pore. The bonhomie begins to flow out of her like so much bile. It’s hard over the Jefferson Airplane. Sleep with some random guy, this girly said quietly. Her ability to tie a scarf around her neck nine different ways, all chic as shit. All the rose colored words she pasted to her bathroom mirror have deserted her. For any shape. She was seated in a hard chair staring at the frondy plant life that filled the HR woman’s office, the angelfish blinking in their burbling aquarium, a motivational poster thumbtacked to a corkboard of a wet, pissed cat dangling from a rope. This is all good stuff, she said. I love you. She saw it through the caterpillars dangling from her eyes. Growls Bear now and Girly is lead, paws extended forward as though she is blind toward a clearing in the black woods, where the man shaped shape glimmers in the distance like a hope. Lead me. No. La Mer, Dirk? Make a night out of it. Girly observes this through the open jaws of a bear skin rug which she is donning like a cape. It’s a language where are there are no adjectives or articles or little verbs anymore. Now they are in a grunty tangle. In this way, she is like what’s-her-face. We should go too.”
“Yes, why not? Lud. When they tumble to the ground, the snow is not cold. It wants Girly so badly. 13
IN THE END it is really about the universe.
A girly is covered in vomit. Girly focuses an eye onto the darkness. I’ve had mine waxed, Dirk, but the bumps are fading.”
Dirk nods and laughs and pretends he understands what Girly is saying like Girly did for the two weeks she vacationed in Scotland. He’s got a beard like Paul Bunyan. It stinks tangibly. Now? Because I can read it even when I’m drunk. Lusted after. I just can’t, this Girly called out from the backseat earlier. “Oh and we could split a room, how fun. The shape nods. Oh and he’ll just fucking reach for her, not like this asshole. Now, in this outfit, she walks toward her bearded dragon, who has witnessed her endure these severely sexless months — January, December, November, October, September, August, July, June, etc. She is desired. She just staggered to the ladies room to double-check in the mirror and there it was, gleaming under her alcohol-addled skin like a moon through fog. Why why why? The front desk woman asked her and Girly said All of them. Girly looks at the men who have surrounded the hottest girly and are attempting to guess her ethnicity. Not a liar. I’m going to the mountains like we talked about, she tells him now, her overly drawn coral lips very close to the glass. The less hot one, the one that had the momentary moral crisis in the car on the way over. There are plenty of men on the street but they don’t look like they’re from the mountains. Whatever it is, it is taller than she is, chest burly like the mountain, shoulders broad as the black sky, eyes beautiful as stars. It is a bed of down. That fairy tale Girly who was friends with mice. Go to the mountains equals get fucked properly. And it stinks. I have a theory about it. She has gone to Nailed and had her toe and fingernails painted with a formaldehyde-rich varnish the color of porn pussies. “Good to meet you,” Dirk says, extending his small puffy hand. Fucking wrong on fucking purpose, she wants to say. What the universe wants. Mountain view or view of the lake or of the town? “Sorry?” He says, even though Girly knows he totally heard her. We should all get laid in the mountains.”
“All get laid?” Girly says. Hmm.”
“Next week it is! She scrambles up higher and the snow is no longer cold, it’s hot, like the time the girlies all took that cruise to Cozumel and there was that half hour docking on the beach and Girly ran out to feel that white hot sand between her pedicured toes and how that felt. There, a mountain man who does not fear your intensity, your whimsy, your eclecticism, will approach you and mount you as God intended. It is her own. She is especially trying to make peace with her sex parts, covered now with small, fresh red bumps from the hot wax. What else? Raises her hide in the air so there can be no misunderstanding. Me get laid. And yet, and yet, here she is, being twirled round and round in the chalet living room by one of the married men from Chicago to a Jefferson Airplane song. she whispered over the board with eyes closed like clenched fists, the Chardonnay bottle sweating between her knees. Because of the delay caused by one of the girly’s breaking down, they’re already deep into the fucking hour. No bartender sees her even though her clothes glow in the dark like a pylon cone. Must. Dancing their pre-fucking dance or the dance they were going to dance instead of fucking. “I don’t know,” Girly spits. Yes. Brakes. How is Hud going to look? I’d hate to ruin things. There! Follow. Dirk is saying how he is actually from Chicago, but comes here once a year to snowboard. They’re getting it wrong on purpose, Girly thinks observationally. “When were you thinking of going, Girly?” The hottest girly asks Girly now with her very large shining eyes all over Girly’s face. Gruntrumble with desire! That’s frightening. She’s on all fours now. Your hair grows, Girly thinks. People who had just been walking by slowed down to watch Girly, all six-feet-five inches of her flesh bent over the tiny card table draped with a blue cloth patterned with suns and moons and stars. Observes it with the blazing blank mind of an animal, the image coming to her through teeth and hide, as though from a great distance. Me. Girly’s mountain sex clothes are also slung over the bathroom door, color co-ordinated and glittering — she bought them earlier today after a hushed consultation with the Universe in the mall food court — glittering so she will be highly visible to the mountain men even from a great distance, even in the dingiest of bars. She reminds herself of her cosmic fashion sense. But you have to believe them. The force is entering her like a giant cosmic tonguecock, and not just her sex parts, but her fisty heart, its wings, her smudged up soul. Oh this will make up for so much. Girly’s night out with the girlies, who, like her, are in various stages of divorce. She holds up her drink and waggles the glass that’s still half-full, because if she drinks more alcohol at this point, she’ll be poisoned. Girly looked at this woman who seemed to have very thinning hair. Girly is deaf to all sounds inside of Bear because inside of Bear, there are other whispers. Bouffanted hair frozen into position as if by cryogenics. They were seated at a little fold-out table on a busy sidewalk and Girly had screamed out her question in her already naturally very loud voice. She smells palpably of pre-vomit. It is ice and heat, whisker and wet leaf, air and man flesh. Tender, but aggressive. I’m a giver, Girly said, lip jerking hideously to one side. Forget about this for now. Right, right. It is fur and air and teeth and tongue and stars. They sit around a large slab of wood in their shiniest clothes, their fake lashes dangling from their actual lashes like caterpillars from precarious twigs, their Nordstrom Rack costume jewelry blinding passing bus boys, drinking cava and sucking the small, too-salty black olives that come in a tiny blue bowl. Macedonia? Please. Who is L—”
“I’ll tell you why it’s so hard for women to get fucked these days, Dirk. So there. It’s blood. Are you insane? She turns to watch the bad white-people-band playing Redemption Song on the sawdusty stage, people in fake cowboy hats cheering them on. She sees the backs of her two friends standing by the bar. “Really hot.”
“Yes, hot,” the other, less hot girly repeats. Snowboarding accident, Dirk says, seeing her eye the black blue swirls surrounding his nose bandage, and indeed he looks to Girly as though he would never be at ease in the mountains, that probably he comes from the plains. Why does she even try to include them in her vision? Not to mention. But now? Embrace the universe. It isn’t even mind, it’s deeper. She does not remember the three good things any more. Because she is communing with the universe which has a message for her that she is straining to hear. Is it Belarus? She is wearing grays and lavenders today because this morning when she closed her eyes and opened her heart, the universe whispered, Grays, Lavenders. They have all been married to the same ilk of shithead — this is what binds them. She even explains her cosmic sex plans in their language, which she can speak, thanks to her ex and the foreign soap operas she watched to be able to communicate with him. It is the universe’s bed for the fucking, better than the log lodge at which she made a reservation. Oui non oui enchanté, Girly murmurs to the mirror. Girly is pretending not to hear it. And you know what? She averted her eyes as Girly blew into it hard. The girlies are also from this country. The mountains are where I must go. Bear is another skin, consuming her so she is oblivious to the shouts and screams around her — What the fuck are you doing? But she doesn’t speak the words. Is it a man? Fuck you, Girly whispers hotly to all the faces, but she waves back at her girlies, her fingers wiggling like the panicked legs of an insect turned onto its back. I give. You. I will sit in the hotel lobby, this girly continued. She sees, beneath his muzzle, through her false and falling eyelashes, that there is the sky and there is the mountain but where? Observes the curves of their legs, the smooth stretch of thigh flesh between their boots and their skirt hems. Gold-orange so you will be a walking sun in the dark. There. But Bear is a shield. Even on their tractioned boots they seem to slip on the downward sloping sidewalks. Girly didn’t even know they made skirts that short, boots that high. It’s a force of nature, heaven and earth. I’d fuck you if I was a human man. Not like the man you met on Match who resembled a large baby. Checked the oil. It is there! For all the lonely nights. The girlies are in fact the ex-wives of friends of Girly’s ex-husband, who is from another country, one of those little tumultuous ones full of hot women and dangerous politics and monster lore, whose name most people in this country don’t have the mouths to pronounce. What it wants for Girly. Because I’m a giver, she whispers, her lip doing the sideways jerk. Men are afraid of female desire. Oh it is there! Probably this girly brought them back with her from overseas, from her own country. ImhereImhere! A girl’s night out. “You come here because you’re horny, Dirk.”
Dirk fake laughs and takes a sip of his beer, then stares at his snowpanted knees. Dirk?
Now The Power of Now audiobook is saying something like You are asleep you have been asleep but soon you will awake. our Girly said, pulling over onto the thin shoulder, and turning round in her seat to give the crying girly the whole of her face. Darting about in the woods like a deer between the trees, a man-shaped shape. “Great, great.” But inside her there is screaming: No! It’s all a vag. She peered and peered at the faint little lines dipping and crossing each other out on that damp, trembling monster hand like she was actually reading something. The HR woman handed Girly a tissue from a box patterned with little floating puff balls. There is a shape out here. “What a great idea. “You okay?” Dirk says. Oh we will, Girly said. Me me me me me me. Cold. Months that, toward the end there, prompted Girly one night, to reach her hand into his tank and fish him out, lay him on her pimpled chest and watch him scurry up and down her sternum in a panicked fashion. It consists of one street, Main Street, that is lined with bars and clubs and restaurants, many of them featuring antlers in their decor. But I did all the footwork here, she will scream, several hours from now, stomping her cowboy boot deep into the vomit-streaked snow while under a cold black sky, the girlies drunkenly sway back and forth on their ice pick heels like about-to-tip-over bowling pins. Every time she looks over at them, Girly makes a hissing noise through her teeth. Her breath is smoke. She feels him as a touch that is more than just touch, under and over her fur at the same time. Longed for. Dainty. Blood alcohol levels are high. Outside in the black. And when he opens his mouth, he will speak a grunty English. One is still audibly sniffling. The wail of the mountain tells her this. Why? Girly has no friend like this, with whom to swing arms, with whom to walk in step. There are stores too where you can buy mountain themed clothes and necklaces with snowflake pendants and art that is vaguely Inuit. Yes, she nods now at the dense yellow-bellied clouds that, up until this moment, looked to her like a sign of the end of days. “I’m getting a drink, Dirk.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“No, I’ll get it for me.”
At the bar, her friends float, they float in a sea of spiky male heads and shiny shirts, which appears to be the uniform of the fucking man whether you are in the mountains or in the valley. “So so so so so so so so so fun.”
“Great idea, Girly.”
“Yes, Girly, great idea.”
Girly is a word I taught you. “Vous etes reveillez!” Girly repeats, through her vigorous teeth brushing, her wild, wide open eyes addressing specifically her sex parts. Do not embrace it. Trees. The universe is not a liar. Girly is what they call each other even though they are all old. Her friends are dressed in their whore clothes as predicted, clutching small shiny bags shaped like animals, war painted faces looking pointedly out the car windows even though at this hour, the fucking hour, there is nothing to see out there but black. One of the girlies walks over to Girly. Maybe she should try using her hands. The shape moves in closer. Girly falls to her furry knees. That was what she did in a motel in Cedar City for the real estate agent with the anal beads, her face mashed against the thin, bed buggy mattress, eyes closed tight in anticipation of what turned out to be a limp dick, cold plastic, a lock of her own teased, freshly dyed hair caught in her throat. Now she’s sitting there in the back seat still sniffling and the other girly is comforting her in their language — using words that Girly doesn’t recognize from day time television, because they are words of comfort, of subtle kindness. You do that, Girly said. Well, well, this woman began, your heart line is —
Am I going to get fucked or not just tell me that? “I’m going to the mountains for sex,” Girly announces to her friends, her girls, the girlies, after her sixth or so glass of cava. My Anal Escape, Girly jokes to people, her lip doing that jerk to one side so that no one laughs when she says it, ever. Just fucking tell me their fucking names, she hissed over the warped thin plank of wood purchased at a gift shop in Salem. — through the overly-polished glass of his tank. It is unfortunate that when Girly drinks, she becomes all-inclusive, like a Carnival cruise or a Cook’s Tour. A Girlies’ night.”
“And we should look hot,” the hottest of the girlies says. “Yes,” they say, their dark hair shining down their backs. Dork? She stared into the bear’s glossy dark eyes which were looking right at her, she saw, trying to tell her something of great import. Real female desire. It propels her out of the chalet and into the cold night, upward into the thin winter-crisp trees, and further up where it is colder still, but the universe is keeping her warm with its words of encouragement. But now she is that girl. And when the mountain beneath her, above her, begins to shake and rumble because it desires her so much, because she is such a great fuck, and the snow begins to descend upon the valley below, burying the cluster of chalets in a giant white powdery wave, waving at Girly, Hihi, good morning, my dear, swallowing up the chalet she left behind, the valley, the shit town, all Girly sees is how the stars have finally aligned, how at last they are spelling out her name. She moves about the room in figure 8s — crashed glass, more screaming — only to land with face pressed against the cold window pane. I’m happy to sit there. “FUCKINGQUIETDOWNINHERE,” Girly roars in her preverbal language. They whistle out to the two girlies ahead of Girly who pretend to be oblivious. Because just as she twitches, the mountain begins to gruntrumble. What’s his name again? Wander into an antler-studded bar somewhere on Main Street. The whisper is hot in her jewel-shackled ear now.
Now they are One. Girly and the girlies make their way up the street, a narrow sidewalk so Girly walks sometimes ahead, sometimes behind the other two, who always walk side by side, practically in unison it seems to her, with the same measured steps, the same heel-toe cadence, slinging braceleted arms with each other like they’re committed faux lesbians. Hars. Fuck me, she cries to this thing that is larger now than mountain or man or mountain man, that must be none other than the universe itself. I, thinks Girly.
Girly repeats these rose-colored paper words to herself now while polishing off the Chardonnay dregs from the night before. Not like the man from Tinder who collected spoons.
The mountain town sits on a steep hill. Girly speaks her day time television version of the girlies’ language now, using her hands for emphasis, a pair of elk antlers jutting out above her head on the wall behind her, for even though this is a tapas place, the décor is decidedly intermountain west. What it whispers, of an evening, into the highly-attuned whorl of her well-studded ear. No it is everywhere! Rumbly snow on the mountain. Enfolds her like heat, like buzzing air. Girly repeated. The universe has made her feel perfect sized. That was when she heard a voice. Not to mention she booked the hotel room and filled her Ford Escape with gas. Five minutes ago, she was sitting on the couch like a drunklump, watching this vomity girly get twirled, whispering mantras out of her mouth corner — Lars. This is negativity. But never mind that now. Is that in there? She has forced her eyes open with little bits of tape in order to make peace with the fact of herself with no clothes. But wait. Do you know a Lars?”
“Lars? It is mouthfuls and mouthfuls of sweet mountain snow. It’s difficult with no tape.
“Derek,” says the man standing beside her in the bar. As thin as her ex-husband was fat. My tits are okay-shaped. About yourself, the HR woman said, smiling at Girly. Run! It was a Cook’s tour of the highlands which Girly booked after she saw Highlander. Good, this woman said. Stars. Each night on the ship she would don a flowy dress from Dress Barn and sit there on the decks and she would wait and wait and wait for this man to come out of the darkness like a dream. The force is gathering behind her, the force of the whole world and then some penetrating her ass, the one she loofahed, moisturized oh so tenderly, told it I love you in the mirror earlier in the evening. She looks hard at these parts — focus! If the wings of your heart are open, spread wide as Girly’s heart’s wings are tonight, every night, to the signs, to the wondrous wonders, then the message is clear: drive to the mountains of Park City. “As a Gift to myself,” Girly says. But she forces them open. Girly observes a Boy Scout enthusiasm about these men, the way they look at the hottest girly with neutered lust. “Yes, we’ll all get laid,” says another Girly. No men in valley! In the mountains.”
“Guess,” screams the hottest girly and the sea of married men ripples with forced laughter. This and the elk antlers above her, which give her oration an odd but resounding sense of authority. My hair grows, Girly told this woman, who nodded encouragingly. Their sex clothes, dark and slinky, glinty as movie guns, slung over the bathroom door, waiting to be slipped into. Craning her neck to address it, to really tell the whole of it, You are my ass and I accept you. Feels the force gathering behind her, rumbling behind her, grunting for Girly. But it isn’t good to meet Dirk at all. Girly would like to close her eyes to the fact of Dirk, as she would to the fact of her own naked body shapes in the mirror. And somewhere up the hill Lars or Hud is waiting. MARCH 26, 2017
This story appears in the LARB Quarterly Journal, No. Oh this will be so fun.”
“So fun,” Girly repeats. Also, the girlies are hotter than Girly and if they decide they want to come along, they will threaten her sex. “You were saying, Dirk?” And she tries to make each of these words a pair of wide open legs, freshly waxed. Her big toes painted the color of limeade. Oh, it was going to happen, it was definitely going to happen, according to the board and according, too, to the woman with the painted-on cheek mole who squinted into Girly’s palm earlier this week. There are still photos of them all on Facebook, wearing these shirts over bodies bloated from the midnight chocolate buffet. Yes. Of something. No bar or couch or dance floor upon whose edge she must hover alone, always alone, thinking thoughts like ice picks. Bought some new bangles and hoops from The Rack. But she is warm within the bear hide. But you guys go ahead though, continued this girly. So Girly turns up the top 40 until they are so deep into the mountains that Lady GaGa crackles into silence and then Girly switches the station to country but that crackles away too and then there is nothing but fire and brimstone on the radio or staticky nothing at all and so she puts on the Power of Now en Francais and cranks it, and stares, stares harder than she has to at the dark road ahead, like it’s a sex part she needs to believe in. His fingers will lie flat and large and unfurled against his dark denim thighs. All around her this hot man shape. There is also her telepathic connection to certain animals. It’s heat. His nose is right in the middle of his face. Dirkless. The sort of girl whose image, if she saw it on the TV, would compel her to throw her drink at the wide, flat screen mounted on her living room wall. “I think these gentlemen want to take us back to their Chalet,” this girly informs Girly with excruciating slowness, gesturing at the rolling sea of men behind her. Because it’s fucking ridiculous that’s why. The cartoon woman looks a lot like the two women, her dear friends, the girlies, with whom she is about to venture into the mountains. She swoons, sways, allows herself to go faint like a girl on television. She gazes from her friends in their man sea to Dirk prodding his swollen nose in the corner, to the black night through the bar windows, a night into which she fears she will go forth alone. The girlies nod at the antlers as Girly speaks her soap opera words. She hadn’t planned to tell the girlies her plans. “Where’s Lars, Dirk? A mountain man? They park the Escape at the base of the hill and walk up the one bar lined street. Do you love me? Something better, wilder, hotter than all she is leaving behind. None of it matters. Crying into her bangled hands. She just kept nodding. — until her eyes begin to tear and burn from looking and she repeats a few words that are taped to her mirror on small rose-colored pieces of paper. Or maybe Dirk can’t speak English. It’s steely silent in the car because already there has already been a falling out among the three of them. What are their names? Mountains must go for sex. “They’re nice men. So there, my friends. Hud. The HR woman nodded slowly, her face looked concerned. They might have been telling her that they had just slaughtered their own babies. “Hot,” Girly says. “Soon-ish.”
“How about next week?”
“Next week,” Girly says, pretending to think. At the time, Girly was looking for a sea man. They lead Girly in circles toward the back window like she is the wandy indicator thing on her warped Ouija board. Fall over, fucking fall over, thinks Girly, observing their long black hair shining even in the dark, shining brighter even than Girly’s reflective sex toga. For all the outside nights. Give yourself this gift. Charades with Dirk. The woman with the painted-on mole looked from the people watching to Girly’s large outstretched palm. Or maybe she can’t? Gentle but fierce. “Those aren’t mountain men, they’re married men,” Girly says. She closes the legs in her voice. Kind sentences? You’re a giver. No. She can feel it as an electric, cerulean breeze on her hide, like the cooling aloe gel the waxing lady applied when Girly started bleeding and screaming post wax, but sexy and serene. You are awake!, shouting it from Girly’s speakers like a preacher. And he’ll be as hairy as the baby man she met on Match was bald. Psst. For all the bearded dragon nights. Cava Thursday at the Copper Onion. Would you like to hear my theory? And they have a chalet. Mainly it is how she uses her hands when she speaks that communicates her meaning. What else? I thought I’d be okay but I’m just not built like that I guess, she sniffed, clutching her purse to her violently pushed-up-and-together breasts. They are surrounded by a group of men who are buying them drinks, which they drink and drink, teetering backward a little on their spiked heels. Where is she from? Still does. — staring at the bearskin rug on the floor, upon whose hairy white back all these fuckers were drunkenly dancing. The bottle, sweating on the toilet, has a label featuring a cartoon woman wearing a red strapless dress, her black hair in a high swishy ponytail. The girlies wave at Girly, who is teetering at the far end of the bar waiting, waiting for service, drumming her porn pussy fingernails on the bar to no end it seems. Girly asked, pushing her palm closer to the woman’s face. She and Bear are of One Thought, One Mind. She nods. Girly considers this girly, the midway hot one, outfit-wise. Probably they don’t in this part of the country. A sweaty specimen in snow pants with a banged up nose covered with gauze and tape who comes up to about clavicle level on Girly. Yeah. “Just for sex?” one of the girlies says. Run toward it. But that’s later. A mountain? Can’t do what? Because if she can’t look, how is Lars going to look? Now Girly is brushing her teeth in her mirror naked whilst listening to an audiobook of The Power of Now en Français, a language she is learning because it is the language of romance oui oui.