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- Чарльз Буковски
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"
I
’
ll
wear
a
white
rose
.
"
"
Great
.
"
"
Listen
,
are
you
sure
you
want
me
to
come
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
All
right
,
I
’
ll
be
there
.
"
I
put
down
the
phone
.
I
thought
of
Sara
.
But
Sara
and
I
weren
’
t
married
.
A
man
had
a
right
.
I
was
a
writer
.
I
was
a
dirty
old
man
.
Human
relationships
didn
’
t
work
anyhow
.
Only
the
first
two
weeks
had
any
zing
,
then
the
participants
lost
their
interest
.
Masks
dropped
away
and
real
people
began
to
appear
:
cranks
,
imbeciles
,
the
demented
,
the
vengeful
,
sadists
,
killers
.
Modern
society
had
created
its
own
kind
and
they
feasted
on
each
other
.
It
was
a
duel
to
the
death
-
in
a
cesspool
.
The
most
one
could
hope
for
in
a
human
relationship
,
I
decided
,
was
two
and
one
-
half
years
.
King
Mongut
of
Siam
had
9
,
000
wives
and
concubines
;
King
Solomon
of
the
Old
Testament
had
700
wives
;
August
the
Strong
of
Saxony
had
365
wives
,
one
for
each
day
of
the
year
.
Safety
in
numbers
.
I
dialed
Sara
’
s
number
.
She
was
in
.
"
Hi
,
"
I
said
.
"
I
’
m
glad
you
called
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
was
just
thinking
of
you
.
"
"
How
’
s
the
old
health
food
Inn
doing
?
"
