A pair of boxer shorts, bought from Banana Republic in Coconut Grove, in the late 90s.
My wife detests these pants; I think it’s the colour, which might best be described as “grimy peach”. I bought them on one of the best holidays of my life - a week-long stay with friends who had recently moved from New York to Florida. The beginning of February was bitterly cold in London; but Miami was in the low 20s, the seafood was great, and all the bars served Bacardi Anejo. There was nothing to dislike.
Leggy and I were sitting at the traffic lights in his car, giggling and stoned, when his Trinidadian accent drawled, “Dude... Sly!” I look out of the window, and there he is right next to me: Sylvester Stallone, about to climb into a black S600. He was very short; I was very high.
My wife detests these pants; I think it’s the colour, which might best be described as “grimy peach”. I bought them on one of the best holidays of my life - a week-long stay with friends who had recently moved from New York to Florida. The beginning of February was bitterly cold in London; but Miami was in the low 20s, the seafood was great, and all the bars served Bacardi Anejo. There was nothing to dislike.
Leggy and I were sitting at the traffic lights in his car, giggling and stoned, when his Trinidadian accent drawled, “Dude... Sly!” I look out of the window, and there he is right next to me: Sylvester Stallone, about to climb into a black S600. He was very short; I was very high.
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