Uptown, sitting

"Ahh!" he said.

"What, what?" I said.

"That," he pointed to something by my leg.

"Oh god, what," I said, filled with a sudden combination of embarassment and fear.

"You're reading Bukowski," he said, incredulously.

"Oh yeah," I said. "God, I thought there was a bee on my leg or something."

"Oh no no, it's just that I didn't know anyone else liked him."

"Good stuff," I said.

"Yeah,"

I still had my finger marking the page I was reading, the one where he writes advice for young writers. Don't write like me, he said, editors will hate you, something along the lines of that, but it's too late. I've already been stung.