She sat on the fire escape, a cigarette between her red lips. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and she offered him a cigarette from the pack. "Oh," he mumbled, "No thank you, I don't smoke." She chuckled softly as she tucked the pack away. "Oh, you will," she blew a trail of smoke out, "You belong to the city now, you're gonna start doing things you'd never even dream of before you came here."
"I'm meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don't stop reading till they've gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, "He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?" "Yeah, yeah, I know." I say, "He's great."