103 degrees
she cut my toenails the night before,
and in the morning she said, “I think I’ll
just lay here all day.”
which meant she wasn’t going to work.
she was at my apartment—which meant another
day and another night.
she was a good person
but she had just told me that she wanted to
have a child, wanted marriage, and
it was 103 degrees outside.
when I thought of another child and
another marriage
I really began to feel bad.
I had resigned myself to dying alone
in a small room—
now she was trying to reshape my master plan.
besides she always slammed my car door too loud
and ate with her head too close to the table.
this day we had gone to the post office, a department
store and then to a sandwich place for lunch.
I already felt married. driving back in I almost
ran into a Cadillac.
“let’s get drunk,” I said.
“no, no,” she answered, “it’s too early.”
and then she slammed the car door.
it was still 103 degrees.
when I opened my mail I found my auto
insurance company wanted $76 more.
suddenly she ran into the room and screamed, “LOOK, I’M
TURNING RED! ALL BLOTCHY! WHAT’LL I DO!”
“take a bath,” I told her.
I dialed the insurance company long distance and
demanded to know why.
she began screaming and moaning from the
bathtub and I couldn’t hear and I said, “just a
moment, please!”
I covered the phone and screamed at her in the bathtub:
“LOOK! I’M ON LONG DISTANCE! HOLD IT DOWN, FOR
CHRIST’S
SAKE!”
the insurance people still maintained that I owed them
$76 and would send me a letter explaining why.
I hung up and stretched out on the bed.
I was already married, I felt married.
she came out of the bathroom and said, “can I stretch out
beside you?”
and I said, “o.k.”
in ten minutes her color was normal.
It was because she had taken a niacin tablet.
she remembered that it happened every time.
we stretched out there sweating:
nerves. nobody has soul enough to overcome nerves.
but I couldn’t tell her that.
she wanted her baby.
what the fuck.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
