Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Flat Stanley

For a month now, I ignored the 3 AM text messages and his taunting of champagne. But - and it was probably the high of just seeing the Twilight Singers perform - I obliged him after the show. I mean I was just face to face with Carson in his salmon pants and Phil Collins and his sh-sh-sudio and they all left something to be desired. This little gal doesn't rue anymore. So I let him - Pompadour, that is - hunt me down that evening. It was I, after all, who turned him on to the firestorm that is a live performance by Greg Dulli.

I believed the fairy tale that he went there looking for me.

That drink in the bar turned into our usual all-night chat-fest and music-listening party and I almost succumbed to the Chimay-induced starry-eyed fairy tale again. I even romanticized that kiss on the shoulder for one moment because it felt like only someone who cared about me would kiss my shoulder.

But he won't talk about what happened or why he went hot-cold so fast. So I tossed the fairy tale aside and remembered that he doesn't love me. And then his laugh became too loud, his voice too dominating, and did he just call that guy, "bro?" Either he was trying too hard or I was over it.

Then he went in for the kiss and it was not a kiss to miss at all.

Besides his glorious pompadour was no more and I just couldn't like someone as flat as him again. Or was I just not prepared for male company?

In the end, I hid the champagne from him and will save it for another fairy tale. But I am curious to see what his next move is.

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