A Woman named Books.
July 19th, 2012
She has red hair. Or least she did when I last saw her three years ago. She was on the street, but she cleaned up good. I liked to look at her. She asked me not too. “I’m not having sex with any homeless guys.!” Somewhat preemptive on her part. Dave1 called her spiteful. Dave was separated. I’ve never been married. I’ve never come to terms with the issue of being a good provider.
She said her name is Books. I don’t know why. I don’t think she’s spiteful. Maybe, she just doesn’t want to raise her kids under a bridge.
1Dave was one of the first to reach out to me in this my third round of homelessness. Without prompting of any kind, he gave me a pair of scissors. I used it for a hundred different emergency repairs – a valuable survival tool. I was grateful to have it. I woke up in the wild one morning and couldn’t find it. It was stainless, but it’s probably rusted beyond usefulness by now. I’ve bought and lost scissors since then – not the same; not a spontaneous act of kindness.
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