I’m burying myself in Anaïs’ diary in the 24 hour food establishment I’ve been to high more times than sober—and yes, I am on a first name basis with all of my favorite writers.
The county dies after 10 PM, so all of the artists and poets are relegated to greasy food shops instead of cafés. That explains our poor output. This place does not nourish us, so we do not nourish it.
Let its culture wither and we’ll keep eating our onion rings.
Anaïs comes out of the page and slides up next to me on the booth, whispering in my ear.
The love between women is a refuge and an escape into harmony. In the love between man and woman there is resistance and conflict. Two women do not judge each other, brutalize each other, or find anything to ridicule. They surrender to sentimentality, mutual understanding, romanticism. Such love is death, I’ll admit.
She always knows exactly what I want to say, and then says it for me. It’s enough to make one lazy with the tongue. I know she is thinking of her June—she has told me so many times about her June. So many that I could only think it was providence when I met my July. We sit together across the decades, thinking of kisses with the women who enchant us, knowing they are surely death.