I was sharing a cigar with someone I just met, passing what was now becoming a little, black nub back and forth after each puff. Our experience with joints must have transferred to other smoke-ables.
The sun was setting behind her as we talked, casting an orange-pink light on her lightly tanned face as she told me about her desires and passions with writing. She liked to write cryptically in lyrical form, using a variety of meters to get the message across - a rather dark message interwoven with a painful history that spoke of nights spent in a psych ward amongst other things. Fear. Terror. Recovery. Apparently, I was privileged enough to hear such information, or so I was told.
"I'm surprised you're even interested in hearing this stuff," she said. "All of the people here are like butterflies, prettying themselves up to paint this wonderful fucking portrait while they socialize about nothing. Blah. Blah. Blah. I consider myself a moth. I am what I am."
"I find you very interesting," I said. "You're real. I like that." Pause. "I'm also a moth. I don't like bullshit and prefer upfront honesty and blunt-ness."
I had totally misjudged this woman. Arriving at this party by myself, knowing only the host, I resorted to guerrilla tactics of approaching different groups of people and inserting myself in conversations overheard, presenting a light-hearted, humorous demeanor. In lay man's terms, I made them giggle with a one-liner or musing quip, talked for a few moments, then wandered on down the trail, dust swirling about my mysterious form, adding to my roguish, drifter aura I was trying to create. Granted, I was also drinking, and I am given to flights of fantasy.
If I didn't make them giggle, then I would walk away anyway, sipping my beer and searching for another target. All's well that ends well.
This beautiful woman, The Poet, was sitting at the bar by herself. Her boyfriend had brought her along, but he ditched her upon arrival to go jam with some musicians, something he said would only be a few minutes but ended up lasting hours. Feeling she was in the same boat of solitude as myself, I snagged another bottle of beer from the cooler and wandered her way, starting a conversation with the lamest of all beginnings. It was one of those conversations you throw at people whom you know nothing about and care little enough about to think of anything halfway creative. More or less, you just want to hear yourself speak and blabber like a complete idiot.
We talked about the weather.
Being the proverbial male that I am, I felt I wanted to know this lady just from her appearance. She was beautiful. She had a great figure and bosoms the size of large melons. They were well-rounded and held comfortably in a figure-hugging black dress. Dark hair hung down, and radiant green eyes sparkled like gems. Those orbs had allure and soul, glimmering with either alcohol or friendliness - one of the two.
For some reason, Fred from Scooby Doo comes to mind when I think of her. In my head, he's with his band of mystery solvers saying: "Gee whiz, gang! Would you look at those knockers?"
Weather conversation turned to beer talk. Beer talk evolved into cigar discussion. Cigar discussion led me to the driveway where we smoked alone, discussing art, writing, poetry, and beauty. It was picturesque and perfect. I began to feel funny, that funny when you feel like a move should be made, but you're either unsure or something's blocking.
Over the course of the night, we found ourselves talking to each other. Alone. One of us would walk away for a while, dive into another group, or get called somewhere. Yet, there would be that moment where we passed each other or almost bumped into each other. The chat continued. Eventually, The Poet threw in some warm embraces.
Her boyfriend, who had been ignoring her all night, began to take notice. As alcohol was downed and spirits were raised high, amorous intentions amplified as they are want to do. That's when people sometimes disappear, or when those who still hold power steal others away.
What started off as a great evening full of jokes, beers, and snide remarks, evolved into an evening of DESTINY. I say that because rarely do I approach a beautifully attractive woman directly and spark up a conversation, let alone do so and find that our thoughts, feelings, and perceptions of the world were in sync with each other. In the past, I have been too much of a sissy because I used to take myself seriously. As of late, it's become less of a problem as I realize that I am just as dopey and lame as the rest of the human race. We're all lame together, even if we don't want to believe it.
Did I just try to put a fable in there? A moral to this story? Fuck. Scratch that.
Lady Fate was really looking out for me last night. I don't know what kindness out of the ordinary I performed for such a event where things pretty much worked in my favor. Yeah, the moth was robbed from the butterfly patch, but maybe that was necessary? Maybe it was just the beginning? Maybe this was my calling to seek out this woman, voyage out into the world, and fight against nearly unbearable and treacherous odds for a chance at love?
Nah.
Dear Fate,
It was awfully kind of you to act as an agent and twist reality so that it was more becoming and advantageous for me. I really appreciated it and enjoyed it. It was a great surprise. However, I am writing to you in order to ask you why you paid me this kindness? Have I done something out of the ordinary? Gone above and beyond for someone else? Did I earn this in any way? If I did, can you please let me know, so that we can discuss a good deeds program where in return for my services, you pay more of these kindnesses to me? You can reintroduce that woman into my life, or you can send me on another adventure. It's totally your choice. Just think about it.
Perpetually under your thumb,
Doktor nOnsensical
