Sing to me, O Muse, seductively sibilant strains, inspiring my spirit
You’d have laughed at my witticisms about zombies and physics, been impressed with my deep and noteworthy thoughts on Tom Stoppard, Cormac McCarthy and my preference for Newton over Leibniz. My taste in video games would have nicely complemented [notice the correct usage, please] yours. You’d appreciate my allusions to internet dating articles about word choice and usage that craigslist won’t let me link. You’d be struck instantly with the realization that I was the Mario to your Luigi, the Hall to your Oates, the Kevin Bacon to your Lori Singer.
I’d have included a picture. You’d have been smitten with me: my delicate crow’s feet, angular but welcoming features, big brown eyes with just a tint of green, non-ironic pearl-snaps and well-heeled boots, mussed but close-cropped brown hair with natural highlights, the slightly off-center blemish on my rather large nose—compounding two minor imperfections, making me just imperfect enough to be approachable—distracting you from realizing that my five o’clock shadow and seemingly uncultivated eyebrows are, upon closer inspection, carefully manicured. You’d have realized that the attention I’d obviously paid to my looks arose not from solipsism or vanity, but from just a hint of insecurity from my slender yet well-defined frame.
You’d have reposted my ad on your facebook, linked it around on gchat. Your friends would be smitten, too. We’d trade a few emails to make sure the other was real. Eventually, one of us would work up the nerve to strike up a casual conversation over gchat (using our integrated AIM clients, a throwback to a more innocent day before Google had integrated everything, back when using the internet was a challenge, reserved for those select nerds with the wherewithal to master it). Or, it would appear to be casual; we’d be trying so very hard to make it casual—itself a form of poetry. We’d do that delicate dancing that two people do as they feel each other out, trying to discern if the other was interested without being too direct or tipping our own hand.
We’d trade ironic interests, trying to one up another’s humor: you’d claim you were on a campaign to satisfy your irrational hatred of Stevia-based sweeteners, I’d claim to love cutting out other people's faces on family photos and putting my own in their places. We’d share a few humor links, but we’d both pretend that we were far funnier than those humor artists—that only we could properly appreciate the failings of those articles while simultaneously appreciating them for what they were.
Eventually we’d agree to get coffee at some place with a fair trade option for you and something just above Folger’s for me. You’d walk in, and I’d be left breathless by how beautiful you were, even prettier than your pictures suggested. We’d greet in delicate, slightly lisping tones, and a spark would pass between us (and not just because I had been furiously rubbing the carpet in an attempt to generate static electricity just for that moment). We’d have a great time, hit it off, and do it again. We’d wait for just the right time to hook up—not because we were drunk, not because we were lonely, but because we couldn’t wait any longer. The sex would likely be mediocre at best, but neither of us would even realize that. We’d be stunned at how right and comfortable everything felt, even those few days immediately after the first hook up where neither one of us is sure what the hell the other one thinks. It would have been so wonderful, ripped straight from a storybook (the very ones we had made so much fun of, just to show that we were the proper level of jaded. “It only happens that way in Disney movies,” we’d have said). It’d be our little joke, amusing because it worked out so well.
But unfortunately Calliope withheld her inspiration.
- Location: Austin, TX
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