Merging

You’re supposed to use both lanes clear up to the merge point. Most people don’t. Most people pile into the left lane, sit, and endure the wait. I generally ride the right lane all the way up to the merge point and rely on somebody else’s good nature to let me over. It easily saves me 20 minutes of commute time every day, and renews my faith in humanity to boot. I don’t think this makes me an asshole. Anybody else could do the same thing. Everybody gets to choose. Sometimes, arbitrarily and for no apparent reason, everybody uses both lanes equally, and it really slows me down. This happened today. As one street dumped into another, the Honda in front of me got into the left lane. I got into the right. We sat. We moved. We advanced alternately towards the merge point. It took a long time. When we reached the merge point, I ended up right back in line behind the same Honda.

The Stopped River and Parking Garage Sky

The river is standing still this evening. It stopped like it had nowhere to go. It makes you nervous when it does that. Rivers have to go somewhere. When they don’t, it feels like nature has given up, and the apocalypse is beginning. Maybe it’s stopped up? Clogged? The sky’s a concrete ceiling, like you would see in a parking garage, holding up everything above it. Heavy as the dirt they’re going to throw on you when you die. She still hasn’t responded yet, and I’m not sure that she will. Tonight’s a lifting night. Squats. Christ, I hate squats. They burn right up from your knees, through your thighs and hips, to your lower spine, and sit in your gut like bad milk. I could squat three of her at once, but I can’t even talk properly to one of her. The river still is not moving, and I’m almost home now. Well…fuck the river, and fuck her.

Insane Red Baby Steps

I entered the insane red bathroom, something out of a nightmare. There was an empty bottle of Corona seated in the strange, decrepit, filthy old sink. It was an unusual kind of sink, with two faucets and two sets of knobs. Pointed inward, forming a pie-shaped wedge with their negative space above the empty bottle of Corona. Inside that bottle, the slice of lime was still choked in the bottle’s throat. It was bright green and still looking clean and antiseptic in its bottle. I felt badly for it. The lime had had a rough night. Got sliced up, shoved in a bottle of shitty beer, left inside the bottle, and thrown inside this filthy sink. He was left out of context. You couldn’t wash anything in that sink. You could only make things dirtier in it. That sink was the lime’s hell. The white tiled floor was glistening and bright and slick with piss. I walked up to the urinal, which felt ridiculous, as it didn’t seem like anybody else prior to me had gone to the trouble of walking up to the urinal. I thought about the shoes that I would never be able to wear inside my house again. I took aim, pissed, and looked down. Below the urinal, near my left foot there was a giant squashed centipede, and near my right foot there was a smashed brown beer bottle. No label. It was pulverized. Broken into many very small pieces, it looked like the product of very deliberate effort. Perhaps the bottle had been used to squash the centipede? No piece of glass bigger than one inch in any direction. It didn’t look like that bottle had ever contained a lime, and I thanked God for that. If there had been a lime in that bottle he would’ve been having a worse night than the one in the Corona bottle in the sink. The rest of the bar was also red, and I returned to it as I left the mens’ room. My wife and the Girl From Moscow were still sitting at the booth, talking. I slid in beside them, sandwiching the Girl From Moscow between my wife and myself. She put an arm around me and cuddled up to me, and I bit her neck and chewed on her ear. She cooed a bit and didn’t resist. I held on to the moment, and rolled it around with my tongue like you do with a mouthful of whiskey before you swallow it. Apparently during the piercing incident from the birthday outing, my wife had learned that the Girl From Moscow’s carpet doesn’t match her drapes. I hadn’t had the privilege of seeing that yet, so it was news to me. We talked about it briefly, and why she dyes her hair black. It didn’t make much sense to me, but what does? Her thin left arm around me and the taste of her neck made enough sense. Our friend Stephanie was tending bar that night. We all drank and drank, and we closed down the bar at 2am. That’s as far as we’d get that night, but it felt good. Sometimes in life you must be content with baby steps.

Dipshit Called

Everything was going great until Dipshit called, apparently just 20 minutes before we met the Girl From Moscow at the bar. She told us about it. She laughed it off. No biggie. It was forgotten. We drank. We talked. We went back to the house, the Girl From Moscow, my wife, and me. Dipshit called. We talked some more. Dipshit called. Making progress, slow but steady. Dipshit called. Semi-disrobed. Dipshit called. Almost there. Dipshit called. Dipshit called. Dipshit called. It was the sound of belligerent plot-loss coming through a cell phone, without pride, without dignity. She left to go see him. She left to forgive him, and take him back. At 1:30am. Goddamnit, I hate being leverage. Now I also hate Dipshit, though he’s really not a bad guy at all.

The Girl From Moscow’s Birthday

Last night was the Saturday preceding Moscow Girl’s birthday, which is actually on Monday. We can’t go drinking on Monday night. So she was out drinking with us last night. We bought her dinner and all of her drinks. After dinner, she decided to get one of her pussy lips pierced. The piercer was a close friend of hers, and he didn’t charge, though she offered to pay. Another one of her friends happened to be at the piercing place. Nice guy, great conversation. He was a giant of a man. Maybe an inch or two taller than me, and easily 60 pounds heavier. I stood out in the waiting area with him while my wife went back to watch the piercing. He and I talked about philosophy and other very cerebral things. He’s a remarkably sharp guy. With Moscow Girl’s freshly pierced lip, we went to the bar next door, and the giant bought us all a round of shots. I don’t think this girl ever has to pay for anything. She always offers to pay her share, and that offer is always declined by whoever is holding the check. This particular occasion happened to be her birthday, but this seems to happen whenever we go out with her. She’s got friends everywhere. Everybody digs her. She’s doomed to ride for free. It’s amazing, but makes enough sense. She’s sweet and dark and enchanting, but a little cold. Just warm enough to keep you coming back.