[F.U.C.K. is an e-zine that I started on January 24, 1993 and ended on January 24, 2000. One concept is that articles should be timeless if possible, so they were not released with dates. As such, the date on this blog is not exact but I will try to use a date as close as possible.]
Typical 50’s diner, upbeat staff, lazy Sunday afternoon. John and I are sitting there with drinks only, lunch a few hours in our past. He is learning Russian in between sips of lemonade, trying to keep an eye on the room. No more lemonade, only water and 62 pages left in the Russian picture book.
Here I sit with a whirlwind in my mind and a feeling of uneasiness all about. Twenty four hours of history behind the trepidation, a full day that doesn’t need to be spoken of. I fancy myself somewhat of a casual writer but I can’t write what’s on my mind, let alone sift through the disorder of my mind. We all know what’s up, just a matter of us breaking through the fear and admitting the obvious. Mostly because our subconscious hides our true desire.
She is catching me staring at her more than I am catching her returning the favor. I say favor because of the mutual interest that is readily apparent. Why her? Last night I was sipping my diet coke when I couldn’t stop myself from drawing a comparison. Her facial features are that of the women in Michael Parkes artwork. His work is slightly exaggerated as most art is. She has those features and they speak volumes in a sense. Despite the appearance of youth, the look tries to conceal a subtle wisdom that derives the naivete’ inherent in age.
It’s always dangerous making snap judgements about the intelligence or wisdom of someone. If you expect one thing and find another, you typically hold it against the person even though it is your own build up that caused the disappointment. She is avoiding that routine by having one of her co-workers check me out, talk to me, size me up, and if needed, rake me over the coals. I don’t have that option. Even a casual inquiry will get back to her faster than I get the answer. Why is it so awkward to start a conversation? Or a relationship for that matter?
Been thinking recently, of just about everything under the moon. I have my castle, my son, my hobby, my library, my army. Translated: my apartment, my cat, my computers, my books, my friends. The only thing I need or want is a queen to share my wealth. Nothing serious really, just someone that actually cares, can show a slice of understanding, and someone that simply enjoys my company.
Of course, you will never see the real file, as it is handwritten on a yellow pad. The black ink barely forming words because of the general sloppiness of my handwriting. Part of it because I only type any more and never have a chance to write. The other lending factor is my nervousness. I can’t express my desire for us to meet.
Maybe another day…