Sunday. Rest, gluttony and an unhealthy dose of introspection.
Still beat from a trying Saturday night in the bougie box, I haul ass to Chinatown for a dim sum feast with a friend in the early afternoon. We stifle the grey (if only temporarily), shoot the breeze, and buy a pair of training chopsticks so I won’t embarrass him on future visits to our temple of dumplings and swine. We part ways outside my coffee shop, where I aim to coddle my neglected caffeine levels and seduce the French minx that’s usurped the bootyful Venetian on my docket since I found out she was taken.
She’d mentioned a boyfriend on one of my previous visits, and as with nearly every woman I’ve coveted since I was old enough to enjoy a hard-on, I’d remained intent on charming her until the day she’d break the chain of unavailability and that ass would be open for business. That all changed when she cheekily revealed she was a scorpio, a bratty scorpio. I’m not one to let the stars take the reins on my daily conduct, but if you’re a grown, self-proclaimed brat, I don’t care if your ass puts Tracee Ellis Ross’ to shame. It’s time to boogie.
Luckily, I’ve found promise in the same building. A Parisian with short, dark hair, a warm smile. Our instant rapport goes through my twangy, mangled, Montreal-honed incarnation of her mother tongue, and she introduces herself before long. I’ve yet to ask her out, but already my lonely ass is splicing myriad scenes of intimacy together from my barren bed in the small hours of most mornings.
I find her working the bar on this weary Sunday. That invincible smile draws one from me before I post up at my usual perch to finish off A Confederacy of Dunces. The hopeful, longing glances I sneak between pages aren’t met in kind, and my reluctance to make my intentions known only spikes with every minute I see her brave the King West bustle. I all too readily accept defeat without a goodbye and give myself ’til week’s end to do the deed.
I head north to a jazz bar I’d been meaning to visit for months. Converted hip-hop gems, dim lighting, bourbon, close quarters. Approved. I glance at the young couple huddled next to my swivel chair between sets, watch its better half embed her fingers in the other’s hair and remember how K loved running hers – long, cold and bony – through mine. The feeling was mutual, just not enough.
On one of a shameful amount of bathroom breaks, I take a minute to curse the dim sum, look at my cowlicky, bearded mug in the mirror, showered in red light, try to convince myself of my value and to move accordingly. Another time.
I head out for a walk through the crisp autumn night before second set’s end to resume boozing with my best friend at an Irish bar on my side of town. We catch up, commiserate for a couple hours before heading home to put the cunt hair of motivation that’s left to bed with the weekend’s fights and enough A&W to sate a pair of well-adjusted adults.
The grey and my grinning inner-fatty are working in tandem, and they’re pitching a shutout.