I sat in the second class of graduate school watching Dr. Strangelove, of all things. The older, but highly alluring, woman who sits next to me makes remarks, while her perfume spoke louder.
"Shameless. You're Hott," That's what she said.
We get out early as usual, and the night is as cool as I'm casual. I stroll through the back streets in route to cafe without a care. The breeze hits my scalp, and I shiver. Not used to a naked head yet. Some young blacklings pass in a Honda and honk their horn at me in approval.
I arrive at the cafe, and tell the newbies that the pizza is the best. Either that, or the grilled four cheese on sourdough for 7 dollars. 1 sandwich and San Pelligrino Aranciata, and the seats at my table are as open as my tab.
Women pass by in packs, and I use my MyTouch phone to scan the can of San Pelligrinno Aranciata.
Sooooo suave Shameless. So suave.
If my bestie were here I could at least pretend to be interesting, but the inbox remains empty, and I remain a symbol of the Matrix, metaphorically.
Wires plugged into cell phone and sockets, with two buds tucked comfortably in my ears.
Sooooo on the grid Shameless. The grid.
In this land of uncertainty is New York Cheesecake. Always at my beckon call as my tab remains open. What the hell is this? Two forks? Why did he give me two forks? Doesn't he know I'm dining alone?
Either he assumes the Cheesecake is going to help me it itself, or that my stream of consciousness has evolved beyond mere thought into a physical being which survives on calories.
Neither of which is feasible. His mistake.