it beats love because there aren't any

wounds: in the morning

she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives

or Stravinsky or Mozart. she boils the

eggs counting the seconds loud: 56,

57, 58 ... she peels the eggs, brings

them to me in bed. after breakfast it's

the same chair and listening to the classical

music. she's on her first glass of

scotch and her third cigarette. I tell

her I must go to the racetrack. she's

been here about 2 nights and 2 days "when

will I see you again?" I ask. she

suggests that might be up to me. I

nod and Mozart plays.