with a Sam Adams coaster and I’m listening
to The Beloved and Kid Koala. The moon is over my head
and I’m trying to be a genius, reading a guidebook, strumming my
tablecloth. The kitchen is loud (from whence our waiter).
I swear it’s Nina Simone. For some stupid reason
I have embarked on a mini-quest to find
meaningful music via this iPod. Yay, I have never been hit
by so many people. A cokehead, a deaf guy who still let me know
he is from Korea, a computer guy from San Diego; the cutest unfortunately
the cokehead. In Cambridge, Massachusetts a
rousing welcome from our hobo. It all starts Wednesday
night at Beth’s party, where furthermore I meet a
real person: droll, self-deprecating, cocksure,
packaged. He’s fresh. I give him my number.
We go to yoga, kickboxing, and a toning class together.
It’d be great if we could talk. Which we do.
About his French horn and his cooking school.
He proclaims he is not of Asian descent but his parents met
in Japan and I’m only dwelling on this right now
because I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Apparently
it was the waiter who did this to me. I’d be
eating and he would say to me (with his own odd accent)
“it seems obvious to me that you are not
satisfied with your current relationship.” He wants
more attention: love, lust, something. I share
his doubts. The most effective song is
the one about being a waiter (all filler). It’s because I’m so easily
unconvinced these days. Suddenly I miss something like
culpability. Or capability. From the symphony, we walk together to Bread and Circus
where the same waiter asks if I’m writing a manifesto. I’m sipping
tomato garlic soup. He’s kind of cute in a frat sort of way.
