One of my oldest friends shows up at my house last night at 12:45 am. She comes through the door with a bottle of chilled Prosecco, talking about Bukowski. She says, “It feels like I fucked him in another life.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying him.” I tell her.
While I paint, we talk and drink. The wine goes down easy, so we uncork another bottle from my collection. The stuff she says to me makes me cry, makes me cringe, makes my belly ache with laughter. It’s like rolling in a pile of dry leaves, popping the pockets of air in bubble wrap, smashing an empty beer can underfoot. It’s like that moment when you realize you could have died, really died, so you laugh so hard it becomes madness.
Later she reads me some of her poems. There’s a bite to her writing that I really dig. It’s raw. It meanders. It kicks. Just like her. I tell her she’s a wild horse, not the most original metaphor, but I’m 5 glasses in and that last bit of creativity is siphoned toward the hand still holding a paintbrush.
At 5 am, three bottles later and depleted of energy, we take a walk around my block to get some fresh air. I wear a long dress that drags along a street that’s freshly rained on. The night is humid, warm, maternal. We want to stay in it, breathe it in, live in it. I want to lie on the street, but everything is wet so we sit in my car and doze off.
This morning we wake up to the revelation that somehow she’s made it onto the sofa, and I am in bed spooning a handsome, six-foot German.