morning comes and you're still with her and the bus and the tourists are gone

ok. tricks. tricks. think, man, think! you need something snappy and fast.

"for one, i have the great swindle where i bring a crossword to a bar and use it to make myself seem intellectual."

ooooo. good one. hey, i mean for me, not for you. it was good for two reasons. one, it made me sound more calculated and less random and desperate. this is something i need to work on and this retort was step one in that direction. insofar as it made me start believe i'm working on it. two, it surreptitiously put out that i was fully aware how little i was interested in my puzzle and simultaneously told her that i knew that she knew that i knew i was watching her her. ladies and gentlemen, my master's work.

"hm. really. if you want to seem intellectual you should try to fill in the puzzle, even if it's random. a blank puzzle makes you look like you're out of your depth."

ugh. all that fluffing of my feathers only to be caught in the thunderstorm. but! she's paying attention, no? and here's where the tequila fog obscures my better judgment, but despite how she just doused me, i felt more confident. now i know, i have confirmed with incontrovertible evidence (c'mon, just go with me here) that she's curious enough about me to actually look at the puzzle and see that's it's empty. trust me, this is a MAJOR victory.

"well, i just started it. then you walked in. you can't expect me to finish it now."

wow. this tequila shit really works. normally, it doesn't, but i've never pulled anything like that out before. i'm in full-on flirt mode. i'm half-conscious, and i think that might be a good thing.

by the blue-tarred walls near the market stalls

back to the porn.

"you've got me. captain desperation steering my ship toward lonely ports of call."

what the hell did i just say? oh god, this was not the time for the tequila to start whirring the the wheels of fancy in my brain, making cogent conversation impossible. this happens all the time. my imagination fills with the rocket fuel the agave nectar yields and rages towards the heavens of my mind. i make connections between unconnected outposts of my mind; disparite colonies of passing thoughts and stray musings suddenly link, and single thoughts clump together to form masses of clutter that my tidy head must expel through my untidy mouth. and yes, most of the time i sound like a discarded cyborg experiment.

"aye, aye, cap'n. rough seas are they?"

and this was also not the time or state for me to be in to be constantly fending off her egresses past my defenses. clearly she wasn't clouded by the zinfindel and her wit was biting through my clothes and starting to draw blood.

"maybe for your average sea dog, but this old mariner's got a few tricks up his sleeve to help navigate these choppy waters."

jesus. i'm left myself open for more attacks. well, not attacks so much as feints. jabs. a fully mounted assult at that point would have been pointless because she could probably see i was easy prey anyway. better she should bat me around for a while before delivering the killing blow. where's the sport otherwise??

"what sort of tricks, old man of the sea?"

ok...not what i was expecting there. i thought she would bite on the old, but not the way she did. this was the first time she got, dare i say it, flirtatious with me. this was shifting from being a contest to repartee. how the hell did that happen? i'm not complaining, but now, i started to feel like she was always going to be in control. she was the initiative for everything so far. and while she'd been agitating everything in a good direction for me, i was still put off by how little i was involved in the action aside from just being along for her ride. and why was she even pulling me along. brain. overactive. must. slow. down. go. with. flirting. stop. resisting.

last flight to marakesh

"so, is he a friend of yours?"
"huh?"
"i know you're listening. you can't stop looking at me."

busted. just like i'd planned. ha! i've drawn her back in. or at least made myself a sufficient visual nuisance that she had to address me. i wouldn't say she sounded irritated. no, it was more bemusement. like she couldn't imagine what the hell was going on that these two guys should be vying so diligently for her attention. attention she clearly was not going to dole out like government cheese. attention i had developed a sudden addiction to. attention that i would take by any means necessary. reading that makes sick to my stomach with myself. pussy.

i had to think quickly now. the "huh?" had bought me an extra second or two, but now was the critical moment. the response would dictate the rest of the conversation, probably the rest of the night...(cue dramatic strings...) maybe (dunh, dunh, dunh!) the rest of my life. i'm melodramatic. up yours. i'll be however i want to be. my story, my rules (thanks, mom). i just felt a surge of importance in those seconds. to be sure, i had already been intrigued, but thinking the game was lost, only to have her reignite the discussion, well, that screamed capre diem to me. the most prudent course of action was to be the statesman. distance myself from zac, while not condemning him.

"haha. got me. well, he's my friend as much as anyone who serves me liquor is."
"is that how you define friendship? pretty lonely guy huh?"

bitch! that was uncalled for. totally accurate, but way too close to home. no one should be able to slice through my defenses so easily. i didn't build all these walls as a child for no reason, you know. i spent years shielding myself from people, and now this...this...sexy shrew with the reed-like whisper of voice that has leaked into me like a toxic cloud...she thinks she can just summarise me like that??!! well, she's got another think coming (thanks, judas priest).

"what gave it away? being chummy with bartenders or drinking alone?"

damnit! what kind of defense is that??!

"both. don't sweat it though. i'm here drinking alone too."

opening!

"but you're not friendly with the help."
"he's an ass. i don't need to be friendly with him."
"fair point. what makes you want to be friendly with me?"

oops. maybe too aggressive. too late. i'm way past worrying about being obvious or pushy. i practically stared at her already. and it seemed to work. she's talking to me now. but that question did convoke some pique. i couldn't see the hair on the back of her neck, but i'm pretty sure it was standing up. unwittingly, i think i had crossed over one her walls, and she was rankled the same way i was. a cycle of psychological skirmishes had begun.

"probably the same thing that makes you want to stare at me and get me to talk to you again."
"tequila?"
"ha! no, must be this pissy zinfindel. my brian's not used to it. must be affecting me."
"so we've learned something. zinfindel is your krytopnite. i'll keep that mind."
"you do that. and i'll keep in mind how desperate you are."

ok, at this point i have a confession. when she said that i instantly felt like a 13 year-old boy whose just seen porn for the first time. strange impulses were surging inside me for reasons i couldn't completely comprehend. intellectually, i knew what i was looking at, but my conscious brain was quickly overwhelmed by a hormone bath. i felt a rush of blood. my quickening had begun.

mark foley vs. jim mcgreevey

quien es mas macho? the so-designated "pedophile american" who adapted to that new-fangled internets the kids seem to love so much, the better to stalk them with, or the gay american(tm) whose intoxication with his own power over voters and his sexuality led to him to back-alley handjobs from strangers?

the maginot line

my probably all too obvious attention to her facial features was broken by her new best friend, zac. clearly he had not learned his lesson, though zac is the kinda fella who thinks his looks are the justification of his invicibility. or maybe he just has the magical ability to never hear the word no or comprehend rejection of any kind. most of the time, i admire it. but now, zac was forcing himself into something of mine, and he was not welcome. but i weighed the relative risk of this disputable interruption versus the relative benefit of maintaining good terms with the guy who comps me twice as often as anyone else, and i see that discretion here is the better part of getting drunk cheap.

he wanted to know how the zinfindel was going down. ick. i wasn't even necessarily trying to score with this woman (frankly, i think she'd go up one side of me and down the other, turning me into the woman), but i immediately felt cock-blocked. zac leaned in with that smarmy, "yeah, i just hit on you with a double-entendre" smirk that guys always do. as if the words weren't slimy enough, they have to produce a facial expression that will communicate their inner leer more concretely. of course, i don't do that. if for no other reason than i have no idea how to be that way. even in those rare moments (like this one) where i start chatting up some woman-stranger, i think i come off more as the deranged loner type than the lady-killer, silver-tounged dude.

zac certainly got his answer. "just fine until i was interrupted." which was delivered in concert with a frost warning. now, being the sensitive (read: paranoid) soul that i am, i wondered if that was meant for zac, me, or both. her hostility toward zac continued to barrel down the tracks unabated. in fact, it seemed she was heaping coal into its engine. but maybe she was irked by me too. i did interrupt her after all. but she had responded to me with relative indifference, if not any warmth, in graphic contrast to the umbrage she took with zac.

all the same, i started thinking through how to deal with either possibility. if she thought i was interrupting, then i should shoot back with something snarky about how my crossword had been interrupted by her sitting down next to me. on the other hand, i could reverse the cock-block and say something to zac about ruining the lady's zinfindel. what to do...what to do...

my indecisiveness was rewarded (how often does that happen??!) when i noticed her offering zac no relief from the daggers her eyes were apprently well stocked with. that told me she wanted him to get lost. so i held back and waited to see if any of those daggers had my name on them. which would have been weird because she didn't know my name yet. but no, once zac got the hint and went off to bless someone else with his frat-steeped wit, she didn't even look at me.

that was the real shame of the moment though. because once i realised she wasn't going to come after me with the fires of her hell, i sort of hoped she would at least act like we might still be having a conversation. zac's injudicious appearance had broken whatever moment we were having and had revitalised her insularity. damnit! fucking zac, man. i think i'll crush his knees with a lead pipe someday. someday after he stops working here and comping me.

so, flummoxed and without sufficient wherewithall or game to try and re-enter her private world of rose wine and drunken mothers, i just sheepishly returned to my puzzle. now, when i say i returned to my puzzle, i mean i faced it and held a pen in my hand, but i kept my eyes trained on her via the all too obvious side-stare. i guess i didn't care if she noticed. but yeah...i did. i was like a chastened dog who keeps looking to his master (mistress for all you pc freaks) for the sign that i've been forgiven and start eating from the table again.

hugo chavez vs. amedinajad

quien es mas macho? the anti-american oil baron president who wants to start his own book club or the anti-semitic nuclear maverick who wants to wants to drive israel off the map?

jon benet ramsey vs. john mark karr?

quien es mas macho? wait, this is sick. i can't believe i even started to post this one. i'm already burning in hell at some undetermined point in the future, and now i'm sure add acid to the flames. real acid.

besides this one's no contest. jon benet all the way. have you seen that guy??

never one to moderate

feeling unflinchingly fearless (i said i was drinking tequila), i asked, "how's the zinfindel?" and studied her face and its lack of movement. she turned slowly and replied in a low, whisper-thin voice that bespoke of throat surgery, "fine. it's not rose, but it will do." interesting. she actually answered me. straighforwardly. with no hint of the grinding animus she had projected at zac. she wasn't in the neighborhood of friendly, but she had left ragetown. i proffered that perhaps they were just out of rose since the times style section had declared it the new cosmo. (no, i didn't actually read that in the times. i discovered this suddenly useful factoid on a blog. no, not the huffungton post. whatever.) the hipsters must be slurping the stuff the way a child follows a parent through a disaster. not sure what's going on or why and with only the vague supposition that this must be right despite all the horror associated with the moment. i think rose wine is pretty horrible anyway.

her gossamer voice rose slightly.

"did you read that in the times style section?"
(imagined response:)
"fuck no! i don't waste my time or money on those self-haters!"
(real response:)
"no, a friend told me. i just thought it was noteworthy."
"is it?"
(uh oh...a challenge...didn't expect to get that...think...think...)
"of course. until tonight, i've never seen anyone drink it, so i thought it was curious that it should suddenly be the 'it' drink." (yeah...take that! smarty pants!)

her eyes narrowed slightly as if to gauge whether i was insulting her or simply a naif who had never traveled in those social circles where rose wine is de rigeur. i hoped she would pick two. it was closer to the truth. though i suppose in my own tequila-inspired, unconscious way, i was taking a swipe at the practice of quaffing fruity drinks. it speaks of eloquent eves writing roccoco poetry and reading keats. wicker picnic baskets and floral dresses. hair tied back with a ribbon. french furniture. landscape paintings with heavy wooden frames. candelabras. ick. not my scene and maybe i was unintentionally communicating that. but i certainly didn't want her to think that. lest i become the next victim of her visual mutilation. chills.

"i started drinking it when i was 13 because it was the only booze my mother kept in the house."
"so it's not because it's the new cosmo."
"no. and i won't stop drinking it because of that either."

she softened slightly. as if her self-validation had broken through whatever vexation she'd walked in with. and now i was getting a better look at her face. some creases, but not so many as to give away her age. heavy brown eyes. round face, but not without some angle around the nose. she looked almost like her nose had pushed out from the back of her head somehow. it wasn't big, but it looked like it was trying to escape. not out of fear, but to explore whatever was out there. like a puppy.

her lips were full, but pale. maybe it was just that kind of lipstick. the kind hookers and strippers use. that they then line with darker lipliner. not that i've studied so many hookers and strippers. for real. i haven't. i'm just observant is all. but she didn't have the lipliner, and in the paucity of light this bar offered, i honestly couldn't say if it was her lips or a covering that were looking as if they were made from smoke.

june carter cash vs. emmylou harris

quien es mas macho? the first lady of country music and beloved wife of johnny cash or the silver-streaked sexy angel of country?

no singe lit her

she ordered a rose wine. the bartender, zac without a k, always quick with a joke, snarked that she could get that fancy stuff in one of them biker bars, but not here. normally, zac's a hit with angry-looking, near-feral woman, but this time his playful jab was met with fuck you eyes instead of fuck me eyes. he demured and offered a pink zinfindel as an alternative.

(no, i had no idea that place stocked fucking pink fucking zinfindel either. now that i do, i am ponderously considering never taking my business there again. my dollars shouldn't be supporting that sort of establishment.)

maybe she felt bad for the death-stare she had just rained on zac (not likely) or she just wanted a fruity wine (yeah...that's probably it), but she accepted his counter-offer. the bottle was the same stale old design of a bottle that's been conveying wine since the days when the nazarene was creating his vintage from desert water. but the label was something else. now get this, it was fucking pink fucking zinfindel, but the label was a black background with a crimson phoenix of flames staring out at the imbiber in what can only be described (by me) as a pouncing crouch. wings spread, eyes fixed outward with a mastered rage, it looked like it may have already been off the label but for the fact it was still of only two dimensions. i will not, so long as my veins carry this much testosterone, drink any color zinfindel, but that label alone got me to submit a quick second order of tequila. and make it a double.

she didn't seem to notice the label. or maybe she just didn't have the vivid imagination of someone trapped in his own world of fantasy. she fumed away sipping her fruity wine and ruminating over something. something. what could it be? especially after a good tequila bathing, my brain likes to try to connect to other brains in the room to try and figure out what made their hosts look and act the way they do. i would never invite such scrutiny upon myself or welcome it, but my own validated hypocrisies stopped getting in m way a long, long time ago.