Confidence is a fickle prick. It took four months for mine to turn on me.
Another six have passed since my dalliance with K put another premature investment in the red and sent every ounce of chutzpah there with it. But between the bougie box, steady flow of cabbage, and freelancing that fills the occasional afternoon, I’ve finally worked my way into a day-to-day without routinely questioning my decisions or barreling down the existential rabbit hole. With that has come just enough gall to chip away at two women I’ve set my sights on of late.
C bows and scrapes in the box alongside me and dozens of others whose dreams have reluctantly taken a backseat to the paper chase and all its temptations. Her looks haven’t ballooned her sense of self-worth, nor is she prone to the chubb-stifling hissyfits synonymous with her colleagues. Almost alarmingly sweet, but indecisive and unavailable, just like those who came before her. Her glorified paramour’s status remains intact, and I’ve already had far too many women run hot and cold on me with their divided allegiances to do anything more than regale her with the occasional witticism until she sends his ass packing. Even in a drought, the name of my game is the long kind. So much for learning from your fuckups.
Which brings me to the Italian bird, a tall, redheaded Venetian thing with the ass I’ve made the subject of my praise once before. My scruffy, olive-toned mug graces her cafe a few times a week for white-collar work as much as it does to build the rapport and gumption required to take the plunge. She’s told me of her origins and aspirations between short spurts of banter, but true to my ass-backwards ways, I’ve yet to obtain her name. I made it the mission of my past two visits, only to catch her in the weeds and get anxious as a motherfucker over my lack of progress. Still anxious, but undeterred. The things I do in the name of companionship.