Killer

Past the shimmering gewgaws on the velvet shoes at N-M, I went on by them, chasing two women, especially the one in the raccoon coat, who is glamorous—Marlene—my neighbor’s new third wife—he had to have—a divorcee with five chil­dren, a convert from Catholicism for him for love—I was on her side. They are all so devout.

I adore I adore I adore—she should have said, I love only you, when she took what I had to give her away from me, because the sunglasses on the counter where I had just paid for my lunch might have been hers, and they were hers! She said something ecstatic and I hardly had to do anything, except ride back down the escala­tor, past pricey purses, veering nearly into jewels, and then into the jewels, where I said no, then on out the huge doors of N-M. I needed to go along over the black pavement, stamping and looking, and, bingo, with my instinct, I would see my car. Postponing the joy of getting into it, for what I would be doing next, I stood and took in the air, and looked around at so much air.

You know how it can hug you and kiss you all over because it is all over you anyway, and inside of me, and I was out there like a smoker—not to try to smother my lungs—just to have something to do with my fingers, and with my hands, and with my mouth, pressing them up against absolutely nothing at all, or aiming to get through it, when there is not a human being I know of who wants to do it with me, my feelings are hurt, when all they would have to do is bat their eyes at me and I would consider myself half the way there.

He doesn’t have to stand on his head. Who cares what he does? I think my luck will hold for me. Yester­day they picked up Squeaky Fromme—two men did, after her breakout out of jail. Her being wanted, it didn’t go on overly long.