Pasty mouthed and having trouble pronouncing his name, you read Burroughs for the first time. “How bitter,” you said, and then repeated yourself, “bitter,” like you had a hiccup of the taste along the back of your teeth. You pulled me over to you, quoted bitterness at me with your tongue on my chest, trying to impress twenty-something grandiloquent endings into my skin. We would’ve spent the entire night in bitterness, but you eventually asked me how I felt, and I said, “When you go out into the hall, can you put some pants on?” Our noses touched. “It’s because,”
“I’ll be quick. No one will see me.”
“Yeah, but,”
“So fast.”
“I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”
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