Before brunch, he’d sat with me to explain the mechanics of the instrument very patiently, pointing out how wind travels through the different moving parts and actually manages to make the dratted thing come off as sexy. That he’s intelligent was never the question.
All I’m wondering is what happened to all that manual dexterity? Woops. Sorry.
Once in my own space, psychic impressions of this latest encounter fall like a ton of bricks around me. A gun??? And what about all the sexy build up falling flat as a winded souffle?? Sure I could do Madonna/Whore with style, but not for that kind of bed-work. I’m conscious of feeling antsy, as if I’d had a meal on the run and I was still ravenously hungry. I rouse the Council for immediate advise and submit my tale of woe for careful consideration.
“Yes, I KNOW,” I reply back, “the bed-work though, trainable or not?”
Carmen San Diego is far calmer, “Hmm, typical. You notice how everything is always about THEM. Maybe it’s been a while, baby he was probably nervous. You are after all a woman of the world. I HOPE you said NO to the gun. What are you going to do?” she quizzes.
I’m contemplating this as I’m slapping my gym clothes on, and readying myself for a run. Or any kind of physical activity that would help the horrifying edginess abate. Maybe horse-back riding would be better. Or wrestling. Something sweaty and full contact. I arrive at the track and launch myself into a lope, noticing instantly how I’m eyeing the football players on the field as if they were a snack.
It helps and I come back to yet more timely advise. My Lovely Libran sister for all her delicate beauty completely ignores the gun request, mainly as we share an Aqua Batty brother who made his fortune in the gun trade. She chides me for my bald statements, “You think it’s been a while? Maybe the dill just hasn’t been around. At least he’s still opening doors and taking you out right? Anyway, he looks like he’s a lot more serious than B ever was. You know, about life and work, etc. I think he should get another chance.” How Libran of her to counter weigh one against the other, though she isn’t completely wrong.
At least I knew I wasn't off my rocker to be shocked at the anti-climax. However disappointingly anti it was. Maybe I was looking at this all wrong and I should actually be heartened by his inexperience. Maybe he REALLY was a truth-teller, and this was proof he'd picked and chosen carefully. Make that sparely. By the following week, I ask him if he'd be up for a trip to a local festival and perhaps some pizza?
He replies gratefully, "Da, of course, how is your day? I will love to go. The dill is on." I sigh, indeed it is. Let's see if the second round is better.