Charles Bukowski

Eat Your Heart Out

I've come by, she says, to tell you that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's over. This is it. I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. She pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head - she lets her eyes look at my eyes - then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. We go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further. She gets up. This is it, she says, this will do. Well, I'm going. I get up and walk her to the door, just as she leaves she says, I want you to buy me some high-heeled shoes with tall thin spikes, black high-heeled shoes. No, I want them red. I watch her walk down the cement walk under the trees she walks all right and as the poinsettias drip in the sun I close the door.

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