Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, The Flesh, and L.A.

by Eve Babitz

Chances are what one remembers.

Women want to be loved like roses. They spend hours perfecting their eyebrows and toes and inventing irresistible curls that fall by accident down the back of their necks from otherwise austere hair-dos. They want their lover to remember the way they held a glass. They want to haunt.

I felt surprisingly comfortable being with them, as though I didn’t have to explain anything or get through the usual walls of misunderstanding that I did with most people in those days who were worried about my “future” and why wasn’t I married.