Meg had the radio on to Brahms. She had the radio on very loud. Meg not only had false teeth but she was a dry fuck. There was no way to get her to lubricating. It was like sticking your cock into a roll of sandpaper: it ground and scraped and burned tire skin. “Turn that radio down! I’m trying to sleep!” “This is the only way to listen to symphony music.” I got out of bed and walked into the kitchen and turned the radio down. “I live here, after all,” I told her. Meg was sitting on the couch having her second glass of Scotch and her fourth cigarette. She had the morning paper. “I want to read you Jack Smith.” “I don’t like Jack Smith.” Meg proceeded to read me the Jack Smith column. It was very clever and journalistic and comfortable. I listened until she finished. “Jack Smith is a fine writer,” she said. “I like Jack Smith.” “All right, like him.” “I like the New Yorker too. I’ve got a right to like the New Yorker. In the old days Thurber and the editor used to have long arguments about the use of the comma.
What do You think about The Bell Tolls For No One?
