the unhappy woman

“…when you go upstairs to type
I am all alone.”

I answered her, “when I go
upstairs to type I am alone
too.”

I explained to her that most
men worked at least 8 hours a
day and that when I went upstairs
to type it was only from 2 to
4 hours and maybe only 2,3 or 4
nights a week.

I didn’t explain to her that this
also brought us money to survive
upon times considered by most
to be very difficult, but she knew
the answer to that:   I didn’t write
for money, I wrote because I was
diseased with writing.

but nevertheless, when she got
into the new Fiat I had purchased
for her
and went off into her many nights
of what she thought she needed
didn’t it ever occur to her
that that son of a bitch she was
tooling around
with the radio on or the stereo
on
might have evolved somehow
from those typing sounds she heard
upstairs on those nights she did
stay home?
while listening to Saturday Night
Live or Johnny Carson?

“sometimes you go up there and type
for 4 hours!”

there were nights I didn’t even
type at all and she
still wasn’t there.

and I sat watching Johnny
Carson.

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