I dreamed I was Bukowski's women, for a night. We sat in bed sipping wine, but I kept nipping at some whiskey in the bathroom. The sheets were silk, the floor was dirty. My slip was sheer, the door was open, I felt vulnerable.

He was this strange man next to me. Not handsome, but attractive. His rough features scream at a woman like me to soften him. We talked, he ran fingers through my tangled hair. He kissed me. I rolled away and hit the lights. With him, I felt old, felt my joints ache, felt sleep heavy on my shoulders.

I slept, he didn't. I felt him get up and heard him flick the lights in the bathroom. He found my whiskey. He'd climb back into bed and roll out again. Only to walk to the kitchen. In and out and his stumble was not slow and easy like I expected from the whiskey and the wine. His stumble had a twitch, and my heart twisted with realization that he was on something else.

I was awake now, listening to his swearing and stammering. Finally the sun rose and I gave up on lying down. Let's talk, I offered. Something to soothe his nerves. And he nodded. And I talked. I told him my story and he nodded. I told him my worries and he sighed. I told him my dreams, he smiled. I asked him the same and he just lifted his glass. To any question, he either kissed me or took a mouthful of wine.

I wanted him to laugh. To break this furrowed brow and see something alive in him. Something younger. I told him stories others had told me. Finally, he laughed. And I laughed. And we talked on, kissing, sipping, laughing.