What are you reading?
Atara asked.
Book on Schopenhauer,
I said.
Dull reading.
Depends on what you like.
She sipped her coke,
her eyes studying
the cover of the book.
Is that him?
Yes, old photograph.
She looked at me.
Why do you read
such dull books?
Maybe I'm a dull guy.
She smiled.
Not last night.
I closed the book
and laid it
on the table.
I sipped my beer.
Does he talk
about ***?
She asked.
Not that I’ve read
so far.
If a book doesn't mention ***
it isn't worth reading.
Maybe I should read Freud.
Why read?
I looked at the waiter
passing the table,
his clipped moustache,
his deep eyes.
You read,
I said,
not heavy stuff,
but you do read.
I like my books
like I like my men:
not too deep and fun.
I said nothing
about my books
and women.
She didn't have
the depth
and she taught me
nothing,
although
that session
in the bathroom
had insight.
The way she had it
right down
to a fine art,
the subtleness
of her limbs,
her gyrations,
her lips and tongue.
What now?
She asked.
I fancy a walk
on the beach,
catch some sun.
You go,
I said,
I want to chill out
with a cold beer
and watch life go by.
She pulled a face sulkily,
but went off,
her hips doing
that thing they did
when she was annoyed.
I watched her go,
sipped the beer,
icy cold
like I enjoyed.
BOY AND GIRL IN YUGOSLAVIA IN 1972.