“I’m studying Proust,” she says.
"I’m reading Celine."
“ever read Bukowski in French?” I ask her.
“yes,” she says, “he’s better in
French.”
“I’ll teach you French in two or three hours,” she says
it won’t take
that
long, I think to
myself.
all of that hair
falling down the back
of her
dress
in long black
curls
the shape of her nose
her big feet.
I’m drinking vodka orange
and tripping on mushrooms
terrified of all that
French.
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