The Evening Breeze Remains, but the Old Friend Is Gone

On our fiftieth cold war, I got petty and listed every luxury gift Violet Fox had given me over the years on an online resale marketplace. The guy who came to inspect them looked for a long time, then couldn't help laughing out loud. "Man, it's Balenciaga, not Balen-say-Ya. It's Versace, not Ver-say-Chay. And this one, it's Gucci, not Goo-Chee..." I stared blankly at those crude, ridiculous knockoff spellings. Because I trusted her, I had never once looked at them closely in eight whole years.