She had a cocktail in a plastic cup, and I remember her nose was a sort of red.
She wore a blue denim jacket at her house party and didn’t care.
The one thing I remember about her was her curls. I remember their frizziness, like if you washed a doll’s hair and just left it as is.
Her apartment floors had old linoleum, and the rooms were low-lit and looked comfortable. Everyone seemed to be happy.
She had an interest in me, and we both liked the Beatles’ White Album. We had discussed it at the student union.
While wandering around her apartment, I noticed that her bed had everybody’s jackets as usual. I dug mine out and left alone.
Outside it was cold and late. It was New York City, and I took the bus. I was heavily buzzed and I was glad about everything.
I felt like there was cotton in my head.
I remember I wore my cowboy boots and felt like a female Bob Dylan for most of the night — the gypsy hobo Dylan from the Desire album.
