Plates and Plexiglas

Told to buy three pounds of big fat fish, I returned instead with a slim slice of chocolate cake, which, I soon discovered, wasn't exactly the best fish substitute on the market. Nevertheless, I stood by my word and smugged the askers with a well-honed and perfectly weighted plate of stubbornness until they had no choice but to throw up their hands (which took them quite a while, as the fact that their hands were in their stomachs ironically prevented them from gagging the bulimic way) and accept fate's basket, admittedly my concoction. Of course the fact that I wasn't paid for my errand put a big fat three pound dampener on my celebrations, which had dubious origins anyway.

My house in its foundations was soon returned to after this encounter thanks to my presence therein. I inevitably fixed myself a carefully orchestrated cup of brown and gazed headlong out of one of my windows — well, both actually, in between blinking. And it was a nice day. Earlier, you see, when I was firmly in paragraph one, it wasn't as weatherly pleasant. Mucky rain and blotchy heat, neither offering relief from each other. Now (or then, as it turned out) I was rather chuffed to discover I hadn't, in fact, taken the weather with me. But Ben's cringe aside, it was perfectly balanced between two extremes, and incapable of getting anyone sensible down.

It was later that I slipped into mood mode and reached for the phone. But she sounded bored and spouted clichés, so I withdrew my funds and surfed for my fix instead. Soon the dusk audience dawned on me, and I began to feel that this unhealthy motif should be shelved and, perhaps, repressed. Ne'er to be mentioned again. I'll take the stage, sure, but I won't stay back and clean the curtains any more. Cue Ben's classy eyes going glassy. Internal scolding hurts the worst.

"I know," I said, for I knew.
"All the more reason to cease," added Ben.
"I know."
"Do you still want me to go and get coffee?"
"Hmm," began Bobshot. "I'm still not allowed to improvise?"
"No," I said firmly.
"Oh," said Bobshot. "In that case, yeah."

But Ben never left. Maybe it's a kind of "Waiting For Godot" thing or something.

I, on the other hand, is the lover's letter. Or so I keep telling myself. Not aloud, of course. But then there's that unforeseen. That wonderful unforeseen. And that equally magnificent future it's probably not attached to.

Thanks for the bullshit.