Women - Charles Bukowski [78]
Three or four days later the phone rang. It was Liza. “I’m in town,” she said.
“Are you at the airport? I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll take a cab in.”
“It costs.”
“It’ll be easier this way.”
“What do you drink?”
“I don’t much. So whatever you want….”
I sat and waited for her. I always became uneasy in these situations. When they actually arrived I almost didn’t want them to happen. Liza had mentioned that she was pretty but I hadn’t seen any photographs. I had once married a woman, promised to marry her sight unseen, through the mails. She too had written intelligent letters, but my 2-and-one-half years of marriage proved to be a disaster. People were usually much better in their letters than in reality. They were much like poets in this way.
I paced the room. Then I heard footsteps coming up the court walk. I went to the blinds and peeked out. Not bad. Dark hair, neatly dressed in a long skirt that fell to her ankles. She walked gracefully, holding her head high. Nice nose, ordinary mouth. I liked women in dresses, it reminded me of bygone days. She carried a small bag. She knocked. I opened the door. “Come in.”
Liza put her suitcase on the floor. “Sit down.”
She had on very little makeup. She was pretty. Her hair was stylish and short.
I got her a vodka-7 and made myself one. She seemed calm. There was a touch of suffering in her face—she had been through one or two difficult periods in her life. So had I.
“I’m going to buy some costumes tomorrow. There’s a shop in L.A. that’s very unusual.”
, “I like that dress you have on. A fully covered woman is exciting, I think. Of course, it’s hard to tell about her figure but one can make a judgment.”
“You’re like I thought you’d be. You’re not afraid at all.”
“Thanks.”
“You seem almost diffident.”
“I’m on my third drink.”
“What happens after the fourth?”
“Not much. I drink it and wait for the fifth.”
I walked out to get the newspaper. When I came back Liza had that long skirt hiked up to just above the knees. It looked good. She had fine knees, good legs. The day (actually the night) was brightening. From her letters I knew she was a health food addict like Cecelia. Only she didn’t act like Cecelia at all. I sat at the other end of the couch and kept sneaking looks at her legs. I had always been a leg man.
“You have nice legs,” I told Liza.
“You like them?”
She hitched her skirt up another inch. It was maddening. All that good leg coming out of all that cloth. It was so much better than a mini-skirt.
After the next drink I moved down next to Liza.
“You ought to come see my dance studio,” she said.
“I can’t dance.”
“You can. I’ll teach you.”
“Free?”
“Of course. You’re very light on your feet for a big guy. I can tell by the way you walk that you could dance very well.”
“It’s a deal. I’ll sleep on your couch.”
“I have a nice apartment but all I have is a waterbed.”
“All right.”
“But you have to let me cook for you. Good food.”
“Sounds all right.” I looked at her legs. Then I fondled one of her knees. I kissed her. She kissed me back like a lonely woman.
“Do you find me attractive?” Liza asked.
“Yes, of course. But what I like best is your style. You have a certain high tone.”
“You’ve got a good line, Chinaski.”
“I have to. I’m almost 60 years old.”
“You seem more like 40, Hank.”
“You have a good line too, Liza.”
“I have to. I’m 32.”
“I’m glad you’re not 22.”
“And I’m glad you’re not 32.”
“This is one glad night,” I said.
We each sipped our drinks.
“What do you think of women?” she asked.
“I’m not a thinker. Every woman is different. Basically they seem to be a combination of the best and the worst—both magic and terrible.