Contributor: David Macpherson
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A guy at the bar let the girl go. Tells us she was hot, she was tight, she was worth drawing on a fresh piece of good paper. He tells us she was into him, she smiled and fluttered and hummed desire. When they met for designer hot dogs and Fresca, he gave her up though. “Drool was coming out of her mouth,” he says.
We don’t get what he means. “So was she really hungry,” one of us asks.
“No,” he says. She wasn’t that bright. Dumber than a bagful of poorly chosen metaphors. “I need a smart girl. A girl who can talk and not just talk. She got to have thoughts about politics. And a job that does more than pay the rent. “So after the restaurant I said goodbye and that’s it.”
We married guys see this a minor sacrilege. For we are casual sex rubberneckers. We are tourists in the land of promiscuity. We take pictures, buy postcards, mouth off that its not as good as it used to be, too commercialized. We will not concede he may have done the right thing. “How can you let her go,” we ask.
“She wasn’t for me. She and I had nothing to talk about.”
We look at him. We stare at the words sailing past us. We speak different dialects. We almost comprehend was the other is attempting to confess.
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A guy at the bar let the girl go. Tells us she was hot, she was tight, she was worth drawing on a fresh piece of good paper. He tells us she was into him, she smiled and fluttered and hummed desire. When they met for designer hot dogs and Fresca, he gave her up though. “Drool was coming out of her mouth,” he says.
We don’t get what he means. “So was she really hungry,” one of us asks.
“No,” he says. She wasn’t that bright. Dumber than a bagful of poorly chosen metaphors. “I need a smart girl. A girl who can talk and not just talk. She got to have thoughts about politics. And a job that does more than pay the rent. “So after the restaurant I said goodbye and that’s it.”
We married guys see this a minor sacrilege. For we are casual sex rubberneckers. We are tourists in the land of promiscuity. We take pictures, buy postcards, mouth off that its not as good as it used to be, too commercialized. We will not concede he may have done the right thing. “How can you let her go,” we ask.
“She wasn’t for me. She and I had nothing to talk about.”
We look at him. We stare at the words sailing past us. We speak different dialects. We almost comprehend was the other is attempting to confess.
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Author:
David Macpherson
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