july 22nd, 2011 part two

and then you wake up

You’re inside your apartment but it isn’t your apartment. You’re seated in the kitchen and begin to feel loopy. You feel an overbearingly weird sense of detachment from reality and cannot gain a grasp on up/down, left/right. Your dog is nearby, that much is certain, but it’s not clear where. You walk into the living room and take a nap on the couch…

When you awake your sense of detachment has increased considerably. The apartment is bare and everything appears to be a dirty shade of off-white. You look closer and notice strange, almost glowing spots of neon blue on the walls. Soon they’re everywhere and pulsate to the rhythm of your heart. You start to panic and presume there’s a gas leak. You call for your dog and he follows as you stumble down the hallway…

The blue spots are growing and you reach out to touch one but nothing comes off onto your fingers and you continue to stumble towards the door and everything is white and empty and fading and finally you burst through the front door with your dog and immediately call your father who picks up but is distracted and you try over and over to talk and tell him it’s an emergency but he’s arguing with another voice and you say there’s a gas leak there’s a gas leak but he can’t hear you and you’re barely able to formulate a cohesive sentence before you collapse to the cement and pass out…

july 22nd, 2011

a matinee at dusk

I was eating at a sushi restaurant in Franklin Village by myself, switching off between beer and hot sake. Seated at the bar was a 20-something man who was nursing a large beer. Small sip here, small sip there. He began talking to the bartender about a nearby pub (where exactly it was located, the price and selection of beer), then about wine (how he liked red and white, as if he was being specific), then he asked about the history of the restaurant as if he genuinely cared when it was clear he was just trying to flirt. It was a pathetic display of hopeless Asian-infatuation, but it made for a great show to accompany dinner.

The man’s efforts left him stranded and as he sat brainstorming conversation topics, in walked a 40-something lesbian who plopped herself down two seats to his right. Without missing a beat she launched into an advice-heavy dialogue (dialogue being a generous description) about headshots and resumes with the same bartender who seemed taken aback by this involving and sudden exchange. I finished my miso soup, scooted forward and listened with an internal grin before asking for the check.

After adding the tip I took the customer receipt and wrote the following note, then strolled off into the night:

The man at the bar needs

to work on his flirting skills.

And she talks too much.