April 1, 2021:

The little mooch, bedraggled in morning light, draped in blue.

She was charming, frequently kind, often patient, and profoundly manipulative over money. Eventually it became too much, so that I dropped her one day, in an impatient conversation in the front seats of my trashed-up '65 VW bus, parked on Prospect Street in La Jolla. Facing south, specifically.

Here we're still together, visiting friends in San Francisco. We've slept on their floor, we're discussing moving there together. There's a vacant apartment downstairs, we can all be neighbors.

It wouldn't have worked. She'd have agreed to split the rent then reneged, leaving me with all the bills, two jobs to make it all happen, and no time for music, while she kept the credit cards and cheated on the side with arrogant drug-peddling lawyers. I say this with fair confidence, since in an oblique and ironic and totally destructive way that's not so far from what actually happened.