Taking a late night drive across town to jill off in the new apartment.
(from Fast Machine)
It was late evening in March in Michigan and the sky wasn’t so much dark as devoid of light and I had to go at the lock with the key a few times before I finally felt it slip into the groove and turn.
Every once on a while I remember I have this book and that I love it and that I haven’t yet torn through all 100(?) of its stories. Most of them are like this one: Short, sharp little thinkers with crisp images and foggy periphery. Which is not to say I put this story down wondering much about the things I wasn’t told. It’s just a night, part of a night, in the life of a horny, sober woman on a mission. Never learned her name. This was brief moment of intimacy, a voyeuristic literary tryst. Damn I still love this book.
Recommended musical accompaniment: Osie Johnson, “If I’d Been on My Way”