Date

She was telling me about Chile.
We were sitting in a restaurant, alongside the canal. A candle flickered on the table.
She was telling me about her travels. She had been to a lot of places.
I watched her face in the candlelight.
She was telling me about Libya.
I won't deny I thought about it. After all, she was pretty, smart and interesting.
I thought about what it would be like to kiss her.
She was telling me about Cyprus.
But I couldn't see any travels with her. I just couldn't.
Damn it.
It was a shame. But, then again, she did talk a lot...

I Miss Her Touch

"I miss her touch," he said.
They had recently broken up. Or she had with him. He had started the conversation and she had ended it. He had asked if something was wrong and she had ended the whole thing.
"It was like electricity," he continued.
We were in a pub. We were talking it over. I was there to offer support or whatever the hell it was I could offer.
I looked at him. "I'm sorry..."
He stared at his pint. "It hurts," he said.
I traced the scratch in the tabletop with my finger and thought what a bloody minefield the whole thing was. We know we could get blown up but we still head out there because it makes us feel more alive.
We finished our pints and drank another round. Then another. We drank until we could forget everything for a little while.

They Don't Serve Madeleines In Pizza Express

"There are millions of women who would love to meet a guy like you," he said.
We were having lunch and he was having a go at me. We used to work together. He was upset that nothing had changed.
"You're in good shape for your age," he continued, "you have a good job, your own place, you have manners, you're smart and speak languages. Come on..."
I took a bite of my pizza. "Well, where are they?" I asked.
"They're all around. You're the difficult one. Just because they don't read Proust it doesn't mean you shouldn't give them a chance."
I had never mentioned Proust. I had just mentioned that I liked them smart. Smart and with an interest in books.
"I never mentioned Proust," I said.
"Whatever. You know what I mean."
"Well, where are they?"
"What about those girls over there?" He pointed to a group of three girls sitting a few tables away.
I looked across. "They're too young. And they're overly made up. They look like they are having trouble just reading the menu."
He spluttered.
"What?" I said.

You Say Scotoma, I Say Scatoma

"It's like scotoma," he said, "you know, blind spots."
"Ah," I said.
"Sometimes you can be fixated on just what you want to see, not the whole picture."
He wasn't talking about me about me in particular -it was a work meeting- he was talking about people in their jobs. Although it could apply to just about any situation.
"And not to be confused with scatoma," I said, "you know, when you have backed up feces in your rectum." I laughed. I laughed because imagine getting the two confused in conversation, what a hoot.
He stared at me.
"You're right," I said and cleared my throat. "Sometimes people can get too fixated on just what they want to see."
Thinking about it, I don't think anybody would ever make a joke about scotoma and scatoma. It's just too obscure, and the odds of it coming up in conversation are about nil. Only a fool would try and make a joke like that.
Let's pretend I never wrote this.

How To Score With Girls

Ski Trip

Outside, it was dark and silent and the snow kept falling.
Inside, it was hot and sweaty and drunk. The bar was crowded and we had rolled up for a beer or two or four. The music was loud and big TV screens showed people doing impossible things on skis. Often they would crash in big explosions of white.
We swigged our first beers and talked about blue runs and red runs and black runs.
We swigged our second beers and watched the girls watching the boys.
We swigged our third beers and talked bullshit with anybody.
"Do you think she’s attractive?" said the girl to me. We had collided with their group at the bar and I had been talking to her for a while. She was blonde with blue eyes and flawless skin. She turned heads.
"Who?" I said.
"The girl presenting this show." She pointed to one of the big screens. I looked at it then back at her. It sounded like a loaded question.
"I don’t know her so how can I tell if I find her attractive?"
She raised her eyebrows and stared at me. She had very blue eyes. Then she nodded and said, "Very true."
Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. Her boyfriend played in a band in the resort.
"Check out her teeth," I said pointing back at the screen, "they’re whiter than the Alps."

All Men Are Useless

It was an innocent domestic scene. The couple had an argument about loading the dish washer. Then there was a flashback to a previous relationship and another squabble.
It was done from the woman's point of view. It was a well written piece, homework for this week's writing class.
The tutor -the fierce one- asked us for our opinions.
I gave my thoughts. I said it lacked information about the main character, about what she was like, about what she was after, about who she really was.
The girl -the woman- next to me objected. She said it was clear what the character was like and what she thought. The heroine, she said, was a strong, funny, independent woman who thought that men were unreliable and weak. That they didn't know what they wanted. That they were immature and fled responsibility.
Wow. I missed all that. I missed reading between the lines into the life of the woman sitting next to me. How careless of me. How weak and immature of me.
I practically fell to the floor in self-loathing.
Maybe next time I should take pottery class.