Lydia met me at the airport. She was horny as usual. "Jesus Christ!" she said. "I'm hot! I play with myself but it doesn't do any good." We were driving back to my place. "Lydia, my leg is still in terrible shape. I just don't know if I can handle it with this leg." "What?" "It's true. I don't think I can fuck with my leg the way it is." "What the hell good are you then?" "Well, I can fry eggs and do magic tricks." "Don't be funny. I'm asking you, what the hell good are you?" "The leg will heal. If it doesn't they'll cut it off. Be patient."" "If you hadn't been drunk you wouldn't have fallen and cut your leg. It's always the bottle!" "It's not always the bottle, Lydia. We fuck about 4 times a week. For my age, that's pretty good." "Sometimes I think you don't even enjoy it." "Lydia, sex isn't everything! You are obsessed. For Christ's sake, give it a rest." "A rest until your leg heals? How am I supposed to make it meanwhile?" "I'll play scrabble with you." Lydia screamed. The car began to swerve all over the street. "YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!" She crossed the double yellow line at high speed, directly into oncoming traffic. Horns sounded and cars scattered. We drove on against the flow of traffic, cars approaching us peeling off to the left and right. Then just as abrubtly Lydia swerved back across the double line into the lane we had just vacated. Were are the police? I thought. Why is it that when Lydia does something the police become nonexistant? "All right," she said. "I'm taking you home and that's it. I've ahd it. And I'm going to sell my house and move to Phoenix. Glendoline lives in Phoenix now. My sisters warned me about living with an old fuck like you." We drove the remainder of the way without talking. When we reached my place I took out my suitcase, looked at Lydia, said, "Goodbye." She was crying without making a sound, her whole face was wet. Suddenly she drove off toward Western Avenue. I walked into the court. Back from another reading. . . . I checked the mail and then phoned Katherine who lived in Austin, Texas. She seemed truly glad to hear from me, and it was good to hear that Texas accent, that high laughter. I told her that i wanted her to come visit me, that I'd pay air fare both ways. We'd go to the racetrack, we'd go to Malibu, we'd. . .whatever she wanted. "But, Hank, don't you have a girlfriend?" "No, none. I'm a recluse." "But you're always writing about Women in your poems." "That's past. This is present." "But what about Lydia?" "Lydia?" "Yes, you told me all about her." "What did I tell you?" "You told me how she beat up two other women. Would you let her beat me up? I'm not very big, you know." "It can't happen. She moved to Phoenix. I tell you, Katherine, you are the exceptional women I've been looking for. Please trust me." "I'll have to make arrangements. I have to get somebody to take care of my cat." "All right. But I want you to know that everything is clear here." "But Hank, don't forget what you told me about your women." "Told you what?" "You said, 'they always come back.'" "That's just macho talk." "I'll come," she said. "As soon as I get things straight here I'll come and let you know the details.