Swampwater Debutante

(were we…actually expecting me to get back to the list? ever? shit keeps HAPPENING, I’m sorry)

Just a few days after declaring my Fridays inviolate, I had the Festival pop up and wipe me out, leaving me ill inclined to go anywhere or really, do anything but sleep. I shoveled down some Advil and napped for most of the day. At some point I hauled myself up and put Boondock Saints into the DVD player, pottering slowly around the apartment. Hooping a bit here, tidying a bit there, then suddenly picking up a sheaf of book notes and blinking at them.

The movie was just kicking into the really violent bits, and the notes in my hand were for a scene that was particularly anger-charged, between my protagonist and her ex-boyfriend. I’d been putting off inputting these written notes but now – fueled by physical pain and the lingering rage at my ex that Boondock still calls to mind I sat down and the computer and wrote. And wrote. AAAAAAAAAAND wrote some more. Kate called. I cancelled dinner. And wrote.

Somewhere around 6, though, I got cabin fever. I still wanted to write, but I didn’t want to be home anymore. I transferred files from my desktop to my netbook, shoved the tiny computer into my purse, and took off for Barnes and Noble. I could get tea and crisps and I could write.

Which, you know. That did happen, a bit. Less on the writing, because when I got to the shop I realized I didn’t have Open Office installed on Toshiko. Thanks to the free wi-fi, I was able to get it, but it took forever. So I blogged and surfed and drank my tea (English Breakfast, two bags, five Splenda and several glugs of milk).

A guy wandered up and took the table on the other side of the barrier from me. I glanced up – decent looking, clean, plain t-shirt and jeans. Not quite my type, but you know, if he spoke to me, I would speak back and give it a shot, just like Doctor Dana is always telling me to do.

(I AM NEVER LISTENING TO DOCTOR DANA AGAIN. FUCK THERAPY)

“Fucking people on cell phones,” he muttered as we overheard a woman noisily ordering show tickets not two tables away.

“I know, right? Not that I’m not guilty of it sometimes.”

“I think we all are.” He smiled, I smiled, I went back to my blog. I’d sort of lost even my fleeting interest when he spoke – I’m not big on the Texas drawl, and he had it in spades.

I worked in silence for a time, he read his magazine. I noted idly that it was an art magazine and quirked an eyebrow. And worked on.

“So they’re open till 11?” He interrupted me as I was waxing rhapsodic about Sean Patrick Flanery, which annoyed me.

“Yes,” I bit back. “Till 11 Monday to Saturday, and 9 on Sunday.”

“Huh. Then you have to find something else to do afterward, I guess.”

Was he gearing up to ask me to do coffee or something after the store closed? I would keep an open mind, if so. It’s not like I go out often enough to be too picky, I think. I tried to smile more warmly. “Yeah. I don’t know what I’ll do. But I don’t want to go home.”

And we chatted a bit, about cats and weather. Small talk. You know. Again, normal, nice enough guy. I eventually excused myself back to my work, though, as it seemed like it wasn’t going anywhere.

“What day is today?”

This one snapped me out of a particularly daydreamy reverie I was enjoying, and actually pissed me off a bit. If he wasn’t going to ask me out, then why the inane conversation? What the hell? SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT, DUDE.

“It’s Friday,” I shot back shortly, eyes on my screen.

“Oh, I get confused.”

“Yes. Today is Friday. Yesterday was Thanksgiving, so it was Thursday, which makes today Friday and tomorrow Saturday.” I tried to be polite, but I have a low tolerance for aimless small talk on my best day – and the first day of the monthly female torture is far, far from a best day for me, ever.

“You’re just trying to confuse me.” He grinned slyly at me. I shook my head.

“Nope, just pointing it out. Thanksgiving was yesterday. Therefore it had to be Thursday.”

“Oh, is Thanksgiving always on a Thursday?”

What the fuck? “Yes. Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday,” I replied, smiling politely and glancing down at my phone to return a message to Maggie.

The word penis floated through my brain, searching for something to connect with (apologies to Douglas Adams). Unsettled by the occurrence, I shook my head and returned to editing my blog entry.

To your left, nagged my brain.

I don’t think I want to look, I demurred.

PENIS, it shot back.

I glanced at my phone again as a pretext for peeping through the railing. Yep. Penis. Right there, out there, in desperate need of some manscaping, hanging out, waving and saying HEEEEEELLLLOOOOO!

Seriously?!

This is what this perfectly normal looking guy had been trying to get my attention for? For forty-five minutes or more, no less, thanks to my talent for blanking out things I find uninteresting.

Just sitting out there. Penis.

My first instinct was to lay my head down on the table and laugh hysterically. OF COURSE. I think someone’s finally interested in me and all they want is to make me look at their cock against my will. NATURALLY.

I did not give in to this urge (nor the urge to stand up and shriek, OI! FLASHER!). I calmly gathered up my things and stood up to go. It was nearly 11, anyway.

“Good night,” mumbled The Flash.

“Yeah, whatever,” I grumbled back as I stalked away. When I said I wanted to see a cute guy’s nethers once more before I died, I hissed mentally at God or whoever, THAT was not at ALL what I meant. NOT AT ALL. Also, I better not be dying any time soon, because that shit wasn’t funny.

I took a circuitous route out, searching for a store employee. I collared a nice middle-aged gentleman by the new releases and explained the situation in a whisper. He disappeared and brought back a manager, who summoned someone else to walk me to my car. I pointed out The Flash, who had idiotically 1) not removed himself immediately after my departure through the convenient back door we’d been sitting by and 2) went out the front door!!

So they saw what he looked like and they’ll put him on a list, I guess.

Me, I went right to my car, called Maggie and Kate, shrieked hysterically, and went to the latter’s home in order to get very drunk and laugh at McNewts playing Kingdom Hearts.

Conclusion: I only attract assholes, deviants and freaks, and I am never getting laid again.