Imperfect perfection.

You don’t need money, he says, you’re absolutely right. The less money the better.

PERFECT BY JEFF WAINWRIGHT  34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 92

She asks can you come and get me?

Camille is pushing through the tourists, shouting back. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where the railway station is. Can you get a taxi? Get a taxi, I’ll meet you at the hotel.

They sprawl on a lounge in the foyer of the 1898, mojitos on a low polished wooden table in front of them. The best mojitos in the world, he says.

Yes, she says, I love the mojitos and being in Barcelona.

Camille stands gaunt in the dusty studio surrounded by junk wrought iron, his Gucci specs (black plastic frames) pushed back on the top of his greying mane of hair, a Leo for sure.

You don’t need money, he says, you’re absolutely right. The less money the better. He tosses his head and the glasses bounce down onto the bridge of his nose. He blinks and pushes them back on the top of his head.

Gaudi’s buildings are celebrated for their q…