"Took a Book to a Booty Call"

Then, I lived amongst the world’s most bookstores per capita. There, I patronized night clubs named after Rumi and Žižek. Home to Borges, Cortazar and the Ocampo sisters,

Buenos Aires is a literary town.

And she, was a literary woman.

Her possessions, I'd seen, were, pound per pound ("kilo por kilo"?) 2/3 books, mostly the classics.

My book was not.

Sales & marketing, 10th grade reading level, I grabbed it heading out the door. Easily digestible in early a.m., even after some drinks.

It was simple, practical.

She was not.

A tortured scrivener, writing paid her bills. Her chemistry—artificially enhanced—swung her from productive to manic to sullen to lustful to creative to …

She spotted my book. Grabbing it, she leafed through. Then she threw it down on the bed—with disgust, I assumed.

"I'm impressed", she said. Then looked up at me, "that you didn't try to impress me."