Stepping Away

I stepped away from it deliberately, and it stung. I’ve got a big, stupid, sticky heart that gets attached stupidly and too easily. It’s a personality flaw. Nobody’s fault but mine. All it takes is for a woman to show me some kind of sincere kindness, to treat me like I’m not a leper, and I become pathetically infatuated. At least I’m aware of it, and do a reasonable job of keeping it under control. After all, I am married, and I do love my wife immensely. We swing, but it’s not exactly an open arrangement. It doesn’t allow for rampant, unrestrained infidelity. We only swing under very controlled circumstances, with each other’s approval of the other’s new partner. My wife would never approve of me hooking up with a co-worker. There’s too much constant exposure and too much danger for emotional attachment. Nothing has even happened, and I already have an emotional attachment. Besides, it’s a hell of a leap to expect a woman to make, to believe that my wife and I have this sort of arrangement, and that it would be okay. I’ve miscalculated that jump before. I just learned that the Blond is actually single. So I helped connect her with one of my friends. They’re both great people, and should make a great couple. She was probably going to pursue him regardless, and I don’t think that she was ever attracted to me. So it doesn’t matter how I feel about it. I have no right to her. She’s always been very kind to me though, and she’s absolutely beautiful. So it stings. She asked for my opinion of him first. I really appreciate that. I like knowing when somebody holds my opinion in high esteem. I gave him an honest endorsement, and I went to happy hour with them both after work. I was an awkward, nervous wingman. They were talking when I left. Off like a band-aid. I’m sure they’ll be great together.

The Blond

The Blond is gorgeous. She just started working here about two months ago. She’s a tall girl, long and lean. No fat on her. Not that that’s terribly important to me, but she’s very fit. Looks like she’s about my age. Very tall, almost my height, but not quite. I love that. The length of her form is absolutely serpentine, like she’s always leaning back slightly, coiled. Reclining even while standing, she carries herself in an almost predatory pose. It’s like she’s ready to strike, but at the same time very aloof and relaxed. Whenever there is a problem, she’s always above it. She does not engage conflict. Loads of composure. At the same time, she takes no shit. Every aspect of her exudes a confident, light, buoyant tension. Her hair is absolutely straight and bobbed just slightly below her ears. She looks like a natural blond, and her lips are light pink and naturally fall into a pucker, like a sideways hourglass. Her ass must be as tight as a drum. She must come from better breeding stock than I do. She’s a perfect physical specimen. Of everybody in the office, she was the only one who showed up to the opening reception for my last painting exhibition. That meant a lot to me. I really appreciate that. Her boyfriend was there too. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.

Pour

There’s no need to be upset. There’s nothing wrong. The details are unimportant. Those unrealistic, projected ideals are not an indication of failure. That you have not yet met them is not the point. That you have tried, and continue to try, is. You pour, like light through a window. You are what you do.

No Thanks

I street-park my car at work. There’s no lot, and the office is sufficiently on the edge of the downtown area that abundant street parking is available. I generally park about a block and a half away from the office. This morning I parked in my usual spot and started walking down the sidewalk with my computer in a bag hung over my shoulder and my bag lunch in my left hand. I noticed two people crossing the street in front of me, a man and a woman, both white. They stopped in the middle of the street in order to get her cigarette lit. At that particular moment there was no traffic, so it wasn’t especially dangerous, but it was a little strange. Stopping to do anything in the middle of a main artery is. The man, who appeared to be in his early 30s, had a shaved head and a long beige coat. The woman, who appeared to be in her 50s or possibly older, had straight, flaming red hair down to her waist. She wore buckets of makeup and very tight clothes. She was completely covered, perhaps even conservatively, but everything was extremely tight. They seemed oblivious to me for about 30 or 40 feet of sidewalk. He seemed to be gently coaching her along. They turned left, exactly where I turn left to get to the office. We both walked ten more feet of sidewalk in tandem. Then they realized that I was behind them, and politely stepped aside and smiled. I walked past briskly, smiled and said, “Good morning!” in as chipper a voice as I’m capable of doing. Chipper really isn’t my thing. I passed, and ten more feet of sidewalk passed. Then I heard a meek voice say, “Hey there!” and trail off. I tried to ignore it and keep moving. Almost immediately afterwards, a stronger voice reinforced the first, and repeated, “Hey there!” I stopped and turned around to find that the woman was right up behind me, the man standing about 15 feet back on the sidewalk. She was difficult to understand, but said, “Hi! You’re down here a lot, aren’t you?” I replied, “Yes, I work right over there.” Then she asked me a question that was feebly quiet and indecipherable. I said, “I’m sorry…?” She said what sounded to me like, “Did you take the train?” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it, but it was definitely a question. So I said, “No. I’m sorry.” I’m pretty sure that, whatever she was asking, “no” was the appropriate answer. Then she smiled and said, “All right. Have a good day.” I said, “You do the same,” smiled back and went to work.

Street Parking

There’s free parking at my office. Rather, there’s abundant street parking nearby. The best place to park is on Penn Avenue. From where I park, it’s about a block and a half to the office. I leave my car down at the far end of the block because there are some row houses at the close end, numbered 2902 through 2908. There are just four small houses there, next to a compact industrial park with high cyclone fencing and razor wire. I park a substantial distance away from the houses, down by the razor wire, not because I’m afraid of the people in the houses or because I like razor wire, but as a courtesy to the people living there. They’re nice people. They have cars too. They also need places to park. The fact that they can’t afford to live someplace with a driveway or designated space doesn’t mean that they’re not entitled to park in front of their place of residence. There are often broken beer bottles on the sidewalk, likely from the bar across the street. There are childrens’ toys strewn about, and flyers with scantily clad women on them, advertising shitty clubs featuring music by shitty club DJs. Living there must be rough. It’s got to sting to have affluent Caucasians commute in from the suburbs, park their expensive luxury cars in front of your house, and take your space so they can have nice short walks to their well-paying office jobs. I appear to be the only commuter who has thought about this and deliberately decided to park far away, futile as that effort might be. The spaces in front of their houses are almost always filled with the very new and expensive cars of other commuters. The ironic thing is that my car is not a car that you would covet or envy. It’s seven years old and has over 100,000 miles on it. It wasn’t that impressive when it was brand new. I doubt that it would engender much resentment beyond the inconvenience that it would create by occupying one of their spaces. Regardless, I’ll continue parking at the far end of the street, leaving their spaces open, as I like to imagine they appreciate the gesture. They probably still resent me, though, and rightfully so. Who could blame them?