Nefertiti's hands were crooked like the beginning of an Indian dance. It was simple enough to win a heart or two, to dissolve a marriage or two, as she laughed through her wonderfully pierced mouth. Did I mentioned that she was one of those beautiful women without guile? She acted like a banshee, but towered over them all. She studied feminism with an ironic smile. She liked it in the shower standing up. Not with me, if you wonder, but I heard. This was Carre St Louis in the fall, when the young smoked in the park followed by rock stars worrying about their hair loss, where old Jewish poets held seance and the music was Moog. We tossed them in that fountain that wanted to be a pool. The effort took away the fun. They were strong and smelled liked the rot.
I don't know, I was confused, and loyal, and watching all my friends circling around. I was Iranian after all and might have been from Mars. Years on, I looked her up, as if she never was. She ran from her suburban emigre house with the first handsome man. She was free and grounded in the idea of mountains, of witches stirring the magic pot.
Her hair was straight and cropped. Her nose was elegantly cut. She wore a silk scarf over her tight jeans over unshaved legs that accounted for most of her height. She was happiest when stoned in an unfamiliar arm. She led them in. I shot.