I had a hunch you’d forget.
Can you recall last night? You left my place in an inebriated state. You were angry. Where did you end up going last night? Hopefully not the Trash Bar down the street.
Who knew expensive hipster hookers, yacht dealers, public school teachers and single parents are crowd pullers? Frankly, I don’t like the music volume, set to deaf, over there.
You can’t talk or hear a thing even if someone was kissing-nibbling-your-ear-close, yelling their sad life away or offering a lap dance in the bathroom.
Wait, that wasn’t a hipster hooker? Was she the English teacher? *Takes a sip of whisky, neat.
Are you’re hungover?
Did you take a bath this morning? Your eyes have an old sea captain’s saggy ball sacks latching on for life. I know you’ve been upset, with life, lately. And you don’t like talking about it.
But I’m glad you made it. That means a lot to me.
There’s freshly brewed coffee and a dozen donuts waiting on the kitchen counter. Double glazed and chocolate dip — your favourite. Grab your sugar and caffeine, and meet me outside.
Sitting, on the patio overlooking the city skyline, under the morning sun will do us both some good. This view never gets tiring — even after a decade, I’m left with a ‘first-time’ feeling every time I step out here.
The caveat of being on top, at this vantage point, is being swallowed by the scale — feeling small, knowing at any time, as a law of the jungle, the concrete landscape preys on the weak but also knowing it offers the world at your feet — to be a lion.
A cliche, my friend.
I know we only met a day ago, but it feels like we’ve known each other for years, even decades. I can’t quite pinpoint what it was that got us chatting and hooked, at my party last night, but it was instant ease and familiarity.
You ended up staying for hours beyond the party. If I remember correctly, it was 2:15 in the morning when I hailed an Uber for you. I had requested and pleaded with the driver, sporting a flannel shirt and long beard, to make no stops on the way and to escort you to your door.
Was he a lumberjack? Oh! That explains the axe resting peacefully in the co-passenger seat.
I only do donuts on Saturdays, my weekly cheat day, followed by pancakes for lunch and a triple meat patty burger for supper. A pint of beer to take it all down gently — swallowing calories like a newborn.
“Cheating on one day of the week” wouldn’t exactly be considered appropriate in any other facet of life. Could you imagine having “cheat days” in all personal and professional relationships? Boy, would that be a crazy idea? I’d leave these writing shenanigans and join a bank.
Okay, maybe not a bank. They are poor. An insurance company maybe? What do you think? You said what? “You don’t care about that and only want to know the subject and topic of what I’m going to write every day?” I mean, would anybody get married? Could monogamy become a thing of the past?
Why the poker face? Are you serious all the time? Oh look, you haven’t touched your chocolate dip or had a sip of coffee, yet. How about we start there.