Bukowski no. 33

She came around the corner shuddering and I asked what the matter was. All of her skin that I could see was flushed with the heat of blood and she clenched her jaw a little and said “People are so disgusting!” Half-joking, I asked “Did someone touch you?” She half-laughed then suddenly the revulsion came back into her face and she said “No. It’s just the way that they look at me.” I told her that she was very pretty and that sometimes people cannot help but stare. She shrugged and walked away. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen but never loved. I felt certain that I looked at her the same way that the others did but most times when she felt my eyes on her she’d turn and smile and speak to me. I watched her walk away and she looked damn good even with her hair pulled up. I was glad that I was not in love with her. Beauty is easily muddied by emotions and I preferred her as she appeared in my daydreams. Perhaps her hair turned to serpents in the sunlight. Perhaps she would decide to eat me alive on a bright spring morning. Perhaps I will see her tomorrow. I am not sure if she exists.