What was that woman’s name? She saw me at her job at the sandwich shop in Asheville, and later told me that she had been so turned on that she went into the bathroom and masturbated, thinking of me. I didn’t pay it much mind, but that might have been the first time that I had to admit that women could actually be interested in me, or that I didn’t always have to be the perpetrator or pursuer.
And later, at about the same time, it came to be time for me to leave Asheville. I went to say goodbye to my next-door-neighbor. What was her name?
I’d played guitar with her. I listened to her sing beautiful songs by Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. Sometimes, I would sneak a peek through the windows and watch her play in her house next door. She told me that she tended to play when she was lonely. I thought she was beautiful and that I didn’t have a chance. I just thought of her as a friend.
And then I went to say goodbye to her. My parents were waiting to take me back to Atlanta. I rang her doorbell. She came out, and I said I was leaving. She hugged me, and then, all of a sudden, she was kissing me. She stopped, turned around, and closed the door in my face.
What was her name, again?
