I can’t really tell how much trouble I’m in with Emily.
You know about our little pajama discussion. Well, let me refresh your memory, as mine was refreshed last night by said young lady.
I was sitting in Emily’s apartment, and again the topic wound back around to our discussion of whether girls are cute in pajamas. Apparently, that was the original question, and I somehow instantly and subconsciously changed the question to a dilemma - pajamas or nothing. What I would suggest is that I made the question better - now it is less ambiguous and more naturally answered.
So we walked to the dance, and talked about the debate, and we wento into the dance, and talked about our viable/date-able age range. Then Emily did a tap dance for me to the tune of “Boogie-woogie Bugle Boy” which she had learned as an 8 year old. At her present age, I was rather entranced, even when she failed to remember just a couple of parts. At some points, I was picturing her in pajamas, but mostly I was reminded instead of our dear American symbol, the Ms. Christina Aguilara (spelling? woops). From her Candyman video… I was imagining Ms. Emily in a little white uniform. I was happy. She seemed to be enjoying herself. She even pointed out that it would be a rare 26-year-old that she would feel comfortable dating. I was beaming, even though I’m quite sure she would let me know directly that I am not that rare 26-year-old she was referring to.
And then we were dancing to “Let’s call the whole thing off” because it is one of her favorite songs.
It’s not like I wrote the song, but what comes up? Pajamas! So what does she say?
“I’m cute in pajamas.”
“I’m sure you are…” and I could’ve left it there without any trouble, but she brings out this witty side of me that rarely knows when to shut up… “but if you wanted to take some pictures and then I could judge for myself, that would be great.”
She looked rather shocked, but she was smiling, and laughing. So was I.
The song nearly ended, and she said, “You know, when you first said it, I thought you were saying you wanted pictures of me in pajamas and pictures of me naked to compare the two, not just in pajamas.”
“No, that’s what I meant. I can write up a proposal if you’d like. I’d keep it short.”
The shocked look returned, with less of a smile. I was smiling. Nervously. So much for truth-telling.
But we got back to normal. She really opened up on the way home. She is very distant mostly - she talks about other things, other places, but not how she’s feeling or what’s happening to her. But she did. Suddenly, and seriously. And I was my usual, unhelpful male self. We parted at her door, and she held the hug longer than I had expected.
I wrote her this morning, trying to see where’s she’s at on the whole me-asking-technically-inappropriate-things-while-still-keeping-in-context-with-previous-conversations-and-the-present-song-at-the-same-time…thing. No response. I hate it. It kills me. I know I’m not supposed to like her, but I do.
Completely switching subjects, an exchange I had with my brother this weekend came to mind more clearly today when I was in the bathroom. Not the best start, I know, but just follow me for a short while. This is how it felt, sitting quietly in that stall, more than content to be by myself:
I was, essentially, a happy Hebrew sitting on the edge of the Red Sea, not looking for some miracle, but just more than happy to be out on my own. And then I hear the sound of Egyptian chariots. My heart sinks. Yes. Of course. Wht did I think was going to happen?
Into my quiet serenity stormed what must’ve been ten, or really only three, men from the office across the hall from ours. I thought of my brother’s at the moment they barged in, graceful and quiet as drunken hobos.
My brother and I were in Big Lots (my first visit in years, but nothing has changed, et semper), and he said something about the tools. I think his exact words were, “Need any tools?” as we approached the tools section. I said, “No, I got plenty of ‘em up by my place,” and we laughed. That’s the connection. The office across the hall is practically my grandpa’s workshop it’s so completely filled with tools of all shapes and sizes.
They were actually, seriously using the word, “Bro”, when referencing one another. I couldn’t say such things while holding a straight face. One of them talked at length about getting the shirt he was wearing from a bar in Chicago.
I really was hoping all the waters would close in around them and their noisy rabble, chariots, tools and all!
Oh, and guess what? After their rough time last month going sky diving on company time and tab, they needed a break after two days of a weekend. So they shut down the office at 1:30 and went bowling. It’s true. They’re part of a drug ring. They don’t do anything but act like a legitimate business as a cover for the smuggling operation. And I’m in love with one if not two of their workers. And with the way cute Sarah is built, loving her is like loving two girls at once. Though, she did suddenly manifest a very sinister look today as I was walking toward my bathroom debacle. It’s like she knew they were coming.
What sort of work necessitates a Monday afternoon break for bowling, except professional bowling? Bastard tools. And a couple of cute girls. Just like all the people down at Casa del Madador. Such is as the whole earth now and forever filled.