This love story took place during the last spring of the Beat Generation. She must be in her middle thirties and I wonder what she’s doing now and if she still goes to parties.
Her name slips my memory. It has joined all the other names that I have
forgotten that swirl through my head like a tide pool of discontinued faces and invisible syllables.
She lived in Berkeley and I saw her often at the parties I attended that spring.
She’d come to a party all sexied up and really move it around and drink wine and flirt until midnight came and then she’d lay her scene on whomever was trying to get into her pants, which happened to be a lot of my friends who had cars. One after another they answered the fate that she had waiting for them.