it started off as most of my relationships
do
“your an ill be got son of a bitch”
she said, throwing an ashtray at me.
the service in this place is ridiculous,
i remember saying to a friend or to myself
most likely to myself
no friends here to speak of
“listen, i think we got off to a bad
start,” i tried to reconcile with the
portly beer deliverer.
she placed the beer on the table
and a book of matches
and placed the ashtray back
to it’s original state of being
“you’ve been warned.”
i shrugged my shoulders
i drank the beer and asked for
another
and another
and another
“It’s almost closing time, so this is your last call”
fuck. not again.
go back to that flea infested
room …
“i’ll take two beers and two scotch and waters, then”
“i’m not interested in you”
“they aint for you, they’re for me – but, hey, why aren’t you interested in me?”
“your face reminds me of the devil”
i lived with her for seven months.
