You weren't supposed to die first.I was thirty-two years older than you, sweetheart. We've been inseparable for thirty-five years, darling. And now yo... are gone. And I'm alone. I don't like being alone.I strengthened my resolve a little, and got up again. I went to my bar, and opened that bottle of Louis XI Cognac you bought me, back when we could afford it. I kept saving it for the right occasion for us to share it.I guess we won't share it, huh? We never found the occasion. It never had. I was piercedin all the right places. I bleached my hair anobviously artificial platinum. I even paid for my owntattoo ‘ “Slut for — Black Cock” on either side of mypussy. I was ready. Telling my loving husband I was going out “with Marge,”I headed for the sleaziest club in the worst part oftown I dared drive into. Scores of white eyes in blackfaces focused on the white woman who had obviously comehere to get laid. About s*******n black men swarmedaround my table wanting to buy me drinks.. More

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