"I've made it," she said, "I've come
through." she had on new boots, pants
and a white sweater. "I know what I
want now." she was from Chicago and
had settled in L.A.'s Fairfax district.


"you promised me champagne,"
she said.
"I was drunk when I phoned. how about
a beer?"
"no, pass me your joint."
she inhaled, let it out:
"this isn't very good stuff."
she handed it back.


"there's a difference," I said, "between
making it and simply becoming hard."


"you like my boots?"
"yes, very nice."
"listen, I've got to go. can I use
your bathroom?"
"sure."


when she came out she had on a
large lipstick mouth. I hadn't seen
one of those since I was a boy.
I kissed her in the doorway
feeling the lipstick rub off on my
lips.


"goodbye," she said.
"goodbye," I said.


she went up the walk toward her car.
I closed the door.


she knew what she wanted and it wasn't
me.
I know more women like that than any
other kind.


Charles Bukowski, in Love is a Dog from Hell