Jeffrey and the Lamb: A Love Story (Sort of)”
By Leigh Silverton, reporting from deep inside Ghislaine Maxwell’s emotional support closet
Look, nobody’s saying Jeffrey Epstein wasn’t misunderstood. I mean, he read Nietzsche. He drank goat milk unironically. He owned a private island and treated it like a cross between Plato’s Academy and Studio 54, except without the introspection. But nobody—and I mean nobody—expected him to fall in love with a lamb.
Not a metaphorical lamb, not some allegorical reference to purity or childhood trauma. An actual, wool-bearing, baa-baa black sheep-type lamb.
Her name was Miriam. She was a rescue. She had alopecia. Epstein said that made her more “real.” He’d cradle her in his silk robe like she was a fragile Fabergé egg or a minor character in The Bell Jar.
He said she listened. That she never judged. That she didn’t work for Vanity Fair.
Ghislaine Maxwell, for her part, walked in on them one afternoon — Epstein was whispering Sartre quotes into the lamb’s ear and feeding her organic rosemary crackers. Ghislaine screamed. Miriam bleated. Jeffrey adjusted his kimono and muttered something about The Banality of Evil and the comfort of barnyard monogamy.
INT. PENTHOUSE – NIGHT – LOW LIGHT – A KIND OF BLEATING MOOD
Jeffrey (in voiceover, neurotic and breathless):
“I’ve dated ballet dancers, child psychologists, two UN translators, and one narcoleptic dominatrix, but this—this is different. Miriam doesn’t care about my past. Or my future. Or extradition treaties.”
CUT TO:
Ghislaine, now in a support group for women who lost their men to woolen mammals, muttering bitterly into a gin fizz:
“At least I got dumped for someone younger this time. And kosher.”
EPILOGUE:
The lamb eventually left him. For a vegan anarchist named Sven who composts and doesn’t believe in walls.
Epstein was inconsolable. He tried to clone her. The clone had boundaries.