She had Jackie Brown hair and a cream cheese laugh, came from San Diego. She was leaving Europe and going home—to the US, school, and Joe-boyfriend; going back to go forward, she’d say, and no you cannot penetrate me but everything else is okay. We said we’d keep in touch, and did for a while: School’s cool, but Joe’s been excavating pussy not mine. She wrote that we had unfinished business, that I should get my white hairy ass off the barstool and onto a plane. And I would have, and should and could have, but didn’t, and someone took her place and burnt her letters, the picture taken in Le Violin Dingue. And I forgot—actually forgot—her family name, which says everything about me then. And Google returns 7,700,000 hits for all I have to go on, Cherie, San Diego, but I’m sure she’s in there and looking for me too, trawling—but I changed my name, see, and countries, continents, and she doesn’t have a prayer, which is why I am 34,874 hits into the search, and why I get dozens of Google Alerts each day.
Kevin O' Cuinn
DAMN SURE RIGHT
Meg Pokrass