After Bukowski

by Mark Reep

The night she left she claimed she fucked Bukowski.  Couple months, when she was twenty-two. 

I watched her pack.  I couldn't do the math.  I said bullshit.  What year'd he die? 

Check it out.  I'm in that documentary.

Which one?

She shrugged.  It's on YouTube.

I said what about I leave young women to young men?

She laughed.  How's it feel writer boy?  Followin' a real one?  Doncha wish I'd told you sooner? 

I never knew whether to believe her.  Why didn't you? 

Cause you'da used it, like you use everything.  Everybody.  You never even ask.      

She stuffed clothes into a plastic bin.  I wanted to say not everything.  Not everything. 

She snapped the lid shut, looked around.  She said she was taking the electric blanket.