The Most Beautiful Woman in Town by Charles Bukowski

I read your story. You always told me to read it, and I never did. And again the other day, you did when you told me you hated my piercing. "I hate poetry," I would always say. Perhaps I read it once, but forgot. It didn't quite have the same meaning that it does now.

You think I am her, and you are the narrator. Well, I am Cass, and you are him.