Charles Bukowski

a good time

now look, she said, stretched out on the bed, I don’t want
personal, let’s just do it, I don’t want to get involved, got

she kicked off her high-heeled shoes . . .
sure, he said, standing there, let’s just pretend that we’ve
already done it, there’s nothing less involved than that, is

what the hell do you mean? she asked.

I mean, he said, I’d rather drink

and he poured himself one.

it was a lousy night in Vegas and he walked to the window
looked out at the dumb lights.

you a fag? she asked, you a god damned

no, he don’t have to get shitty, she said, just because you lost at
the tables—we drove all the way here to have a good time and
now look at you: sucking at that booze, you coulda done that
right, he said, one thing I do like to get involved with is the
fucking bottle.

I want you to take me home, she said.

my pleasure, he said, let’s

it was one of those times where nothing was lost because        
had ever been found and as she got dressed it was sad for
not because of him and the lady but because of all the millions
like him and the lady
as the lights blinked out there, everything so effort-
lessly false.

she was ready, fast: let’s get the hell out of here, she

right, he said, and they walked out the door together.