Sue is still obsessed about her roommate Justin. She overheard him having
a conversation with a social worker about putting a gun to his head and not
being responsible for himself if no one helped to commit him. He has been having black outs and doesn’t remember what he did the next day.
Frankie, Sue’s former roommate, dealt drugs in the apartment. He dated
women and told them that he wanted to be their pimp. Not one of them stayed with
him. He was on anti psychotics and had muscle spasms. He was a man of empty threats. I’ll kill you, he said.
Amy doesn’t want to let me fuck her. I finally had an early morning hard on and still she only let me get her off with my fingers.
My cervix hurts, she said.
I tell Amy I love your breasts, I love your feet, I love your mind, I love your coffee table. I use the word love so many times that it has no meaning.
I’ve never been with someone who is in mourning, Amy said. You’ll go back to your wife.
My bi polar friend says it’s so hard to be normal, Amy said. The medications take their toll.
When Amy asked me if I’m bi polar, schizophrenic, or ocd I wanted to leave, but I thought that it would have been the response of an ill person and stayed with her.
Amy suffers from anxiety and needs reassurance from a remote man.
Don’t withhold yourself, Amy said. If there is one thing I can’t stand it is when someone
Amy can be as unquantifiable as myself.
We drove by the Korean restaurant that looked closed and had been closed when we stood out in the rain last week looking into its dark interior.
Where else should we eat, Amy said.
Let’s drive by one more time and see if we can’t get a look inside, I said
This is a good place to say nothing, Amy said. We can sit at the bar and eat our food and not say anything.
Yeah, I said.
Amy was distracted by a crumpled old woman and a very tall skinny old man with huge glass frames and a young indeterminate woman that looked like a man.
People talk about food nowadays, Amy said. My friends can talk about food for hours. I have nothing to say about it.
Gogol starved himself to death, I said. He was obsessed with food.
I was angry when I was young, Amy said. I’m not angry anymore.
Amy smells of anxiety and mucous.
Amy called me over with her index finger to look at urine.
Amy is terrified of pedophiles. She has been thinking about them. She has dreams of large machines that talk to small girls and know them by name.
I’m kind to Amy when she is strong and mean when she is weak and kind when she is weak and mean when she is strong.
You’re fun to play with, Amy said.
I have an image of A happy Amy with her hands in her pant’s pocket observing
discursive motor cross motorcycles overhead.
I’m an effusive long man. I don’t want to have to appear witty to myself and Amy to be happy with her.
When Amy wants to flatter she says that I’m handsome and when she wants to insult she says that I’m handsome.
How long can we be under the same roof and be happy, I said.
Diego Riviera and Frida Kahlo lived in separate houses, Amy said.
If I lived with someone I would spend less, Amy said. I could save money. I don’t mind talking about money.
Maybe people divorce these days because they live longer, I said.
You have the wrong information Amy said.
It’s not easy to tell if Amy is talking about me when she talks about herself.
Amy wants a timeline. There are years I can’t account for.
Amy played Beatle tunes and Mozart on her electric key board.
Amy’s creamy skin had a bluish cast in the morning light.