March 25, 1999
Just got an email from this girl I kissed in Chicago a couple months ago.
I met her at a club where my band was playing. Her name is Simone. In
her email she says I made her “feel all oh god all over.” All I can
remember about her is the way her hair looked: straight and brown and
clean; and how it felt: good-girl soft, lacing through my fingers like
falling water; and that when she found out I don’t smoke she threw her
cigarette to the floor and crushed it out and took a gulp of her drink.
And then I kissed her. Her body felt lithe and ferret–like under my
hands, all twisty–turny and sleek.
At the end of her email she mentions an office party she must attend
tomorrow. I email her back: “Will you cross your fingers under the table
and think of me three times fast at the meeting, and then tell me what
you saw?” I instruct her to wear the short plaid skirt, white
shirt, black bra, white tights she wore when I met her. She seems like a
girl who needs assignments.