New York in hell

the wench was the worst I had ever met and
I knew it and she knew it, she was ugly
and beautiful at the same time and the two
parts of her just sat there and she just
sat there in that New York hotel window on
one of the hottest days of all time, no
air conditioning, no fan, we sweated and
waited for something.

I was drunk, she was on drugs, we had just
concluded a slippery drudge-like bit of
copulation and she said, “you son of a
bitch, we’re frying in hell!”

“good,” I said.

then I saw her fall out of the window, we
were four floors up, I heard the scream,
her body was gone.

then it was back, she was sitting on the
window edge again, “did you see that?” she
asked, “I fell out the window.”

“good,” I said.

“but somehow I pulled myself back in,” she
said.

“good,” I said.

“is that all you can say?” she asked,
“‘good’?”

“I can say I think you’re a witch and that
window act proved
it.”

I knew that she had just gotten my hopes
up and then had deliberately killed
them.

“so I’m a witch, huh? well, no more ass
for you!”

“good,” I said.

sometimes you live with people and have no
idea why.

with her I knew: it was the simple,
unrelenting
awfulness.