My rating: 4 of 5 stars
“It’s June, the month for going home.” (48)
Someone resembling a woman who I thought resembled me walked by. She was tugging her bags down 2nd Avenue. When I heard the name Bukowski mispronounced—it could have been her, leaning against the book counter to show the guy what. Before that we were sitting on the floor, looking up at C.
“Loving as a form of despair.”
You smiled, and I smiled back.
“Running away from everywhere like criminals.” (27)
At least I was happy just sitting there smoking, leaning back on the artificial leather. You went home unfinished. What I wanted, more than I wanted you or anyone else—the blunt end, warm glass, nothing. Your car pulled up again. The headlights snapped out. I knew what I had stolen. I waited.
‘… some stories are never acknowledged…are lived through without any certainty, ever.’ (38)
I’ll stop by the drugstore on my way home—
Can you pick up some Diet Coke? And peanut butter—.
We have peanut butter. I bought peanut butter yesterday. We need—.
Oh yeah, condoms—
‘I’ve forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I’ve forgotten them, and now I’m talking to you without them… I’m not the sort of woman who gives herself up… I am someone who’s unfaithful. I wish I could find the words I laid aside, to tell you that… ‘(98 )