...you're gonna go, I know, oh/'coz a free wind is blowing through your hair....
3 AM: We walked down Rue Royale. Together, we're less likely to get mugged, he said.
"I'm unlikely to get mugged, ever. Strung out junkies look at the way I walk and think, She'll kick my ass. Or that I'm likely to be a screamer."
Don't know. I've never been mugged.
My thigh vibrates with the pulse of his purr. I touch the bony triangle that forms his skull, amazed he's still with me. I wonder for how much longer.
That Girl's grandfather died this week. She said,
"He got tired of the boring no salt no sugar diet his grandkids kept him on. He's going to Heaven now and eat hot dogs."
Buried on the same day is child poet Mattie Stepanik.
The transmission is going up in the Dodge. I'm driving it anyway.
My needs are simple this time around, mostly two words.
So if anyone knows of an aging Chrysler LeBaron convertible going for two grand or so, let me know. The Firebird looked pretty, but it's got a trunk the size of a hatbox. LeBaron or Sebring's got a three-corpse trunk. Sweet.
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way."
He likes what I'm wearing.
"It's very flattering."
Do I preen a little? Perhaps. How could I take that the wrong way?
"Like I was being nice."
No. Can't have that.