BEST POSSIBLE FIRST DATE EVER! (A FANTASY)

( DEDICATED TO VICTORIA CARLSON FOR HER INSPIRATIONAL PIECE,

http://open.salon.com/blog/victoria_carlson/2011/10/19/literary_constipation)

  She was a nonstop talker, this one. I kept nodding, because everything she said was true. And I liked the way her lips were saying all this spot-on accurate stuff. And the way she would push her hair behind her ear, and then, when she made an especially important point, shake her little noggin and release that sweet smelling hair  from its  bondage, rub her head on the neocortex area, and present a kind of wild windblown look for me to consider, along with her words.

   She did not have a massive mytho-poetic understanding of the mental evolution of the human race, but I certainly did not hold this against her. At least she had one or two pieces of the puzzle. She was a Goddess worshipper, that’s for sure, and she knew about the 1.virgin/2.wife/3.crone thing .

  “My gawd, I feel like such a f-ing crone most of the time, y’know?” she said, putting the hair back behind her ears, then taking a rather unlady-like slug of red wine.

  “What’s that feel like,” I asked. I sipped my German beer, a frothy heavy thing indeed, through a straw. She had found that amusing.

  “Like a dry dessicated old bitch, but still havin’ a lot of wisdom nonetheless,” she said, with a thump of her delicate little hand on the table.

  “Did you just say ‘nonetheless’?” I queried in true wonder.

  “I did indeed, sir!”

  “Sir?!”

  “Yessir!” she giggled and shook that hair loose. “whoops,” she said as her hair hit her shot glass and sent it wobbling a bit.

  “Careful , now! You old crone, you. Her phone rang. She muted it without looking.

  “I got a good vocabulary for a dumb woman, “ she announced, sitting back and staring at me mock-imperiously.

  “Me too, for a dumb brute.”

  She leaned in. “Lissen, you aint a dumb brute. Don’t let anyone, ever, make you think that way, ever!” Another pound on the table. “Do you keep a journal, “ she asked, shifting gears, pulling her nude right leg up under her floral summer dress, right knee gently touching left knee, attached to left leg, whose foot was pumping rhythmically with the conversation.

“Indeed I do, do you, dear?” Ha. Used the d word. For me it is not strategy, it slips out, because I am getting older and more mature and the “lessons from my father” were coming back to me, finally. He was a rather Reaganesque fella, in the good sense of the word. That  strong humble self-deprecatory thing.

“Yep, and here it is, mister mister!” she was talking like she was drunk, but she wasn’t. She was, simply, exuberantly un-cronish. Girlish. Delightful. But wary. Wary of personal space. Her eyes were like cartoon eyes, due to her amazing skill at taking on the emotion of the moment. But behind those eyes was …well, yeah, a crone. I wondered briefly what her mom was like. Or her dad…

She pulled out a tiny leather journal and opened it to today. In red: “is he literate?”

“Aha, an important question. “

“For me, yes.” Now she had morphed into a kind of fuzzy lady literature professor.

Serious.

I decided to sit back and allow myself some time to talk. I had been reacting for awhile now. I had to be myself.

“Mm, me too,” I said, and leaned away from her, and shut my eyes for concentration.

“I am sort of what they call a college dropout, but not for the usual reasons. I won’t say they made me read what wasn’t important. I read Greek plays and Drama and poetry and even a few chapters of that motherfucking Moby Dick. But..i don’t know how to say it..it wasn’t what I needed..i needed raw red meat for the brain. “  I had a moment of alarm by what I’d said, and immediately asked: “you aren’t a vegetarian,are you?”

“No, “ she said, in a lower voice, and actually touched my fisted hand.

“well, then. Nah,” I said, sick of my own droning pathetic voice, sick especially of explaining myself to anyone, even such a lovely odd creature as she, “well, I read after I dropped out. Found the right shit to read. Thank goddess!”  An attempt at levity. Uh oh she was serious now.

“Mm, I think I know what you mean. I mean,” she said, pulling her dress out from under her ass, and neatly arranging it over suddenly crossed legs, sipping the wine, not slurping. “I mean I just read what I was told, got a degree, and sure, I had epiphanies and shit sometimes from the stuff I read, but…well, yeah, I guess I started my own curriculum after I graduated.”

“What are you reading right now? You show me yours, and I’ll show u mine, sister,” I said , manfully.

“Well, here it is, in…my…little …bag.” She pulled it out.

I yanked mine out of my so-called “briefcase”, a denim bag so coffee-stained it oughta be retired.

We considered each others’ goodies, and were both well pleased.

I felt her bare foot gently, ever so gently, brush my ankle…..