Violeta Noir is a woman with a long memory.
She writes about desire, power, appetite, men, food, beautiful rooms, bad decisions, and the peculiar things people reveal when they believe no one is taking notes.
Some stories have already settled into The Archives. These are the stories that survived long enough to become evidence.
Others are still unfolding in The Margins, written the morning after, while the dust is still in the air.
Some evenings deserve a table, a cocktail, and a review Around Town.
And some things are better understood through what was cooking or what was playing in the background.
This is not a diary.
It is a collection of observations, recollections, recipes, places, playlists, confessions, and occasionally evidence.
Names may change. Details may shift. Memory is an unreliable narrator.
Violeta, however, keeps excellent records.
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Ravenous
The burger place never happened. By the time I left the salon, my nails were fresh and my toes were perfect. His favorite color. Of course. Wounded Boy has always had a particular weakness for my feet, and I knew exactly where his mind would go when he saw them. I didn’t need to tell…
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The Morning I Stopped Asking Questions
The morning I stopped asking questions, the Wounded Boy started answering ones I hadn’t asked. This was particularly funny because the day before, he’d apparently fed some of my text messages into ChatGPT for analysis. The machine diagnosed me as fearful avoidant and highly sexual. I shrugged. Maybe. I don’t talk to virtually anyone in…
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The Breakup That Wasn’t
Monday morning, at 6:05, my lover broke up with me. By Tuesday evening he was standing at my door with flowers. So that went well. In fairness, it was a very mature breakup. Thoughtful. Self aware. He had decided that he caused me stress. That he’d affected my family. That things had been said that…
Violeta Noir 