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.
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.
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Published in Metazen.