She blushed, giggled, and handed me the joint. I told her she was my lost half, that she was “the part of me that was ripped off when I fell onto this miserable planet, that’s what you are,” I told her, or something like that. I blew out lungs full of smoke, smiled into her eyes, and passed the smoke. She blushed hotter, and told me to be quiet. Oh, shut the fuck up, is what she actually said. You just fucked me, Ginsberg. And very well at that. Mission accomplished. You wrote your way into my panties. Well done. She smiled and applauded. She was completely naked and relaxed with it, the joint dangled from her lip. You can speak your normal street talk now. Enough with the poems. She laughed harder, and pushed me. She was really stoned. So was I. She handed me the joint, but my face still dropped, wounded by her poking fun. She snickered at my reaction, and snatched the joint back from me. You’re wasting it, she playfully scolded. The tip was dangling ash. She tapped it off and took an easy hit, tilting her face slightly, her black hair falling across her naked shoulders, covering her left breast, slightly—she was so sexy. Then she shook her head and smiled at me, blowing smoke in spurting giggles. She just kept looking at me, and smiling, and shaking her head. She loved me. In retrospect, it’s obvious. But in that moment, her expression was wondering: What am I going to do with this man? He’s a fucking mess.
—
Please Check Out
Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
by Charles Bivona
[It's my Leaves of Grass]
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