As the insult became obvious, I walked back to the main city. My stomach was making gurgling noises. Every sound I heard that night became music. Even the ringing in my ears seemed to have a melody. It all seemed appropriate – at least, it seemed better than the silence that usually infested my brain.“Hell, anyone can write science-fiction,” she said on first perusing my spiral notebook.
“But you don’t understand,” I replied. “This ISN’T science-fiction. It’s autobiographical poetry.”
She gave me a most bizarre look, which I accepted gratefully, knowing full well that I was probably the most “normal” person she’d slept with all night.
“Poetry.” Se said, as if she’d just discovered a speck of shit lodged between her teeth.
Sensing, in her countenance, an unreasonable hatred of all things poetic, I quickly tried to change the subject.
“Did you read that copy of ‘Tropic of Cancer’ that I gave you this morning?”
“Oh, my God! I did! First I was outraged. Then I thought I was gonna puke. And THEN I had one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had in my life!”
I didn’t quite understand how the book had moved her to that third stage, but I kept my laughter to myself and tried to maintain a dignified composure.
I made a valiant attempt: “Don’t you see any similarity between my work and Henry Miller’s best?”
She was snide.
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