She asked me for a cigarette. Well, there’ve been girls whom I have met who’ve asked me for much worse, for sure, since then.

But she was asking for an avalanche. Begging for an olive branch. When all she really wanted was a friend.

I said I didn’t have one left to lend.

But I drove her to the Shop of Souls when she said hers was full of holes and, if somebody wanted it, she’d sell. No one was there to serve us though, and all the world went quaking low as off the shelves the merchandise all fell. Her and I? Just stood there by the bell.

Then she smoked me like a cigarette. She pressed me to her lips and set my body and my mind on holy fire. And though I’m no religious man, I reached to God with both these hands and begged him: “Put me out! I’m all desire for her breath, like notes come spilling out the choir.”

I told her I might make her sick. She swore it was another trick, and dragged me through that place where just the stars shine. Then all the stars turned into bats, the mattress into welcome mats, the rain and endless flow of corked fruit-wine.

Then it ended, like a blip across her lifeline – and she asked me for a cigarette.

Well, there’ve been girls whom I have met who’ve asked me for much worse, for sure, since then. But she was asking for an avalanche. Begging for an olive branch. When all she really wanted was a friend.

Should’ve said it in plain English: “Just a friend.”