by
Michael A. Flanagan it was a flea bag hotel somewhere on 43rd st.
i was high and a little drunk. i told her she
had to strip down first, then i'd pay. she
demanded the money up front. when i
refused for the 3rd time, she stormed out
of the room. a few minutes later, she was
back. she stood by the door and stared
at me. when i gave her the money, she
folded the bills and put them in a small,
dirty white purse. i laughed when she
told me she was on her period, told her,
a deal's a deal. finally, we stripped down,
got on the bed, started in. at some point i
got carried away, i began to think about
love, i kissed her cheek. she wiped the
cheek with the back of her hand, made
a face like a baby that's just been
fed something distasteful. finishing,
i rolled off. there was blood on the
condom, i was surprised, she'd been
telling the truth after all. when she
left, i sat in a ratty looking chair by
the room's only window. between hits
off a fat bottle of gallo wine, i stared at
the streets below. i got very drunk and
wept, not understanding the world at all
