She led a shotgun life, but she don’t understand. Twenty-one years in the passenger seat, a Camel fil¬ter in her right hand. She wanted to be bad so bad she could taste it in the scotch she had. She criticize me for not getting around and wonders why I don’t get my friends to give me a ride out of town. I tell her at least walking down my same old street feels different with these new shoes on my feet.
I realize your obsession, she says, it’s a fact of vast report. But I, for one, am not a brassiere, so don’t ask me for support.
She said she thinks she’s changed a lot, she’s not nearly so analytical. I said if you noticed the change then you probably haven’t changed at all. And as she sat there silent giving me the longest, coldest, hardest stare, I knew right then I had to get her out of my mind or else I’d have to join her there.
All of those Camels have ruined your enamel and though kissing an ashtray is like kissing you, now that you’re gone, an ashtray will have to do.