Women: 34
The next day Katherine phoned me. She said she had the tickets and would be landing at L.A. International Friday at 2:30 pm.
“Katherine,” I said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.” “Hank, don’t you want to see me?”
“I want to see you more than anybody I know.”
“Then what is it?”
“Well, you know Joanna Dover ...”
“Joanna Dover?”
“The one . . . you know . . . your husband ...”
“What about her, Hank?”
“Well, she came to see me.”
“You mean she came to your place?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We talked. She bought two of my paintings.”
“Anything else happen?”
“Yeah.”
Katherine was quiet. Then she said, “Hank, I don’t know if I want to see you now.”
“I understand. Look, why don’t you think it over and call me back? I’m sorry, Katherine. I’m sorry it happened. That’s all I can say.”
She hung up. She won’t phone back, I thought. The best woman I ever met and I blew it. I deserve defeat, I deserve to die alone in a madhouse.
I sat by the telephone. I read the newspaper, the sports section, the financial section, the funny papers. The phone rang. It was Katherine. “FUCK Joanna Dover!” she laughed. I’d never heard Katherine swear like that before.
“Then you’re coming?”
“Yes. Do you have the arrival time?” “I have it all. I’ll be there.”
We said goodbye. Katherine was coming, she was coming for at least a week with that face, that body, that hair, those eyes, that laugh. . . .
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
