DAUGHTER - len kuntz

I drove to LA to find her. A few times I thought I saw her on the 405 sporting new hair color and different clothes, adjusting the lay of her bangs in the rearview. But when I finally found her she was naked except for a pair of stilettos and a g string. I should have looked away from the stage. I tried. She slid across the spot lit floor. Her eyes were sharp and focused. In them I saw myself and every sin. She arched her back like an acrobat, her spine as pliant as rubber. She wanted me to see the bills stuck inside her waistband, none under twenty, two or three Franklins. When she flipped forward I expected—I don’t know what I expected actually—but I didn’t anticipate her looking so much like her mother all those years ago, a virgin then, us unwed and me unraveled. I didn’t expect that. She grabbed my neck tie, twisted it, “What now, old man?”

Len Kuntz
Naughty, Naughty
Meg Pokrass and Jack Swenson