Dear Sofia Coppola,
This question I wanted to ask you earlier about surfaces: I want to rephrase it. What I would like to ask you is this: What do you do when you’re in a grown man’s kitchen and he’s crying his heart out over some eggs and you’re having a hard time trying to understand what’s happened, why he’s crying, and you think that it might be because he’s thinking of his ex-girlfriend whose existence you just discovered when you were looking for some soap in the bathroom cupboard to wash away the blood you bled on his floor earlier on because you suddenly got your period getting out of bed, his ex-girlfriend who’s left her expensive creams and makeup there, as some kind of promise, as if she never left? As if she’s going to turn up any second and start to rub her face with moisturizing cream with a hint of apricot?