PINK ELEPHANTS IN SWEATERS, AND BEVERAGES

Her big dramatic scene was coming to an end, but still wasted twenty more minutes. While she twizzled and tantrumed in an otherwise empty karaoke bar which had told her to not do that to the equipment, I reserved my place at the counter by ordering a drink, filled my pipe, commiserated with the two staff members not trying to diplomatically get her out, and went downstairs and outside to light up. Where her two saner friends were sadly bewailing their lot while waiting for her tweaky histrionics inside to finally end, and resigning themselves to not singing at all that night.
They could have starred! Their great undiscovered talent!
Male people would have totally worshipped them!
In an otherwise empty karaoke bar.

When she finally came outside for the last time, she effusively praised my briar, asked if it was just tobacco ("oh, tobacco is so violent!"), wondered if the pipe was Hermes or Christian Dior, and passionately demanded a high five plus hugs for her positive words.
Which I will not do.
And didn't.

I'm sorry, I prefer not to touch random needy people, ever, especially not the supportive huggy thing or weird palm slaps. First you quietly sit down near me, make small talk, mention the weather or Shakespeare, we inform each other of our names, and maybe in a short while we will touch each others' fingers or something.

Less extroverted, more rational.


During this entire time, a small brunette person was discretely acting insane, in the downstairs foyer, on the mezzanine, in the doorway area of the bar, the entrance to the building, out front under the awning, and on the sidewalk all the way to the eggroll place further down the block and the Palestinian pizza joint a few doors up. Eekity tweakity. Lickety splits.
In between very odd fragments of dialogue.
To herself mostly, but not always.


"You look familiar!"

"I'm not."


Everybody wants attention. High five. Hugs. Love. Marijuana.
Plus uppers, downers, and medication.


I should point out now that unlike all these several women, my ideal female companion, or imaginary girlfriend, was the most perfect company last night, what with being absent entirely (probably too reserved), not there at all, at her home wherever that may be, and completely non-existent.


Here is an imaginary conversation with an introvert:

"Mm, ah, is someone sitting here?"

"Eh, no, it's empty."

"Erm."


Some of my friends have occasionally taken me to task for not taking the initiative or jumping on the opportunities that crop up to make friends with the other sex, and pointed out that the city is full of single women looking for love. And that was four zesty specimens in the flesh! Girls!

They would berate me for being a cold fish.

Like the imaginary inamorata from last night, they were not there.
Which is probably good; I did not have to hear their advice.
I enjoyed my last smoke of the day peacefully.
Without rising to the bait.



I really enjoy my figmentive feminine counterpart. I am fantasizing about her waking up right now, stretching, and heading into the kitchen to make herself some coffee. And given that she doesn't exist, certain details remain hazy. Whether she likes her coffee black or with plenty of cream and sugar, if she is a breakfast person or like me eschews solids for the first hour or two, and physical details like hands, haircut, styles of underwear -- mesh, lace, cotton, sensible, modest, risqué -- and what kind of slippers. Probably warm fluffy slippers, because at this time of year the floor is icy, and a girl likes to be comfortable.

The aroma of a hot caffeinated beverage becomes noticable, as she putters around in her kitchen, where the winter sunlight illumines the yellowed woodwork that might need a bit of repainting after all these years .......
She still looks so sleepy. Perhaps she'll go back to bed.
And take the warm cup with her.

I imagine her also liking woolen sweaters.
Seeing as it's cold right now.
Wintry weather.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================