(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”