You’re Supposed to Know These Things

I drank a beer, or one too many. I was stuck smoking cigarettes, while my girl was smoking a pack of Newports. I couldn’t smoke Newports. “Except this one time,” I thought. I took a rip of her menthol. It was cool and minty. Like quick cars.

She was a nice body. She had a nice body. She was like a fast car, in her bra and her jeans shorts. I looked at her caramel skin, like “Ooh, I would do you.” But, I didn’t listen, cause my instincts were kicking in. “She wouldn’t like me.” I thought.

I looked at Jane. “You wanna get outta here?”

“Why would I want that,” she said.

“I don’t know.” I said. “Dumb question.”

She was always willing to ride, except when it was to bed. I guess that’s what makes a good friend. Jane had long flowing, brown hair caught in a ponytail sometimes, but usually held down like now. “Wild.” I thought.

I had a bookshelf full of Murakami’s, Hemingway’s, and Twain’s. She had a bookshelf full of Jennette McCurdy’s. I liked her for that. That she had her own style and taste. I clicked open a beer. “Tsch.” “Tsch.” She said right back to me.

She winked at me. I winked at her. The TV was on to a station or channel I could barely know. It looked like the evening news in the 90s, back when PBS kids was still on, and Arthur.

Arthur’s droopy-eared friend, Bugs. Or, was that a different cartoon.

Clothes rested on the floor, drooping off the couch, like one of those Dali dripping clocks. Jane put her top on. It was cut above her belly-button.

I started seeing two tvs and then three clocks on the wall. The digital numbers started merging together, to where I couldn’t make out the time. My dog was fast asleep on the couch. The bedroom door was open. There were no lights on inside.

Jane coughed up two pills. “What are those?” I said.

“oh– those, don’t worry about those.” She said. “Okay,” I said–”Aspirin?”

“No, doof.” She said. “Not Aspirin.” Okay, so I assumed the white capsule was Aspirin, but it was probably a painkiller. “You know, if you wrote like Basquiat paints, I’d probably date you.” She said, throwing my small paperback down.

“Don’t you think, you’re being a little dramatic,” I said.

“No, if you could write like Basquiat paints and write like Bukowski writes, I’d like you.” She said.

“Okay.” I said.

“How do I do that?” I said.

“You’re supposed to know.” She said.

“You’re supposed to know these things.” She said.