Boys Are So Different To Girls.

A man approaches my table tonight as I dine with my sister–
He’s had a bit to drink, but his face is open wide– as is his heart, I suspect.
He says a great many well rehearsed lines
before I ask him to give me something entirely fresh–
Something you haven’t thought about before–
You know–
Something new–
If not borrowed, and/or blue.

We talk sailing, and travel and Sydney and literature.

He mentions he’s made a lot of mistakes.

I like him. But I also know I’m going to have to start trying to get rid of him in approximately five and half minutes– Tops.

He reminds me that he saw me crying, laughing, eyeing off that little baby in the far left corner of the restaurant– all night.

Which is true.

All of this is true.

There’s loads to be sad about. There’s even more to laugh about. I’d really love to have a child.

Guilty: As charged.

He asks me if I’m ovulating and I laugh.

He’s in his mid-fifties.

I’m not.

He confides in me his readiness to father a child.

I laugh again.

I’m nervous.

And I am ovulating.

And we’re all animals after all.

I know it all comes down to smell– as existential as we might try to be– about stuff and things– it’s not that tricky really. People either dig one another or they don’t.

It’s nice how easy it is, really.


I’m just having dinner with my sister…

He explains to me, his great love of Stephen Fry– and why.

He mentions the cognac he keeps back at his– a couple of blocks up from where we dine.

He admits that he knows I’m not going to go home with him– but that– for just a moment– it feels nice to sit with me and talk about things.

Reckons I’m sparkly he does.

And I’m flattered. And I say as much. Because it’s true. This is also true.

What I write, in my blogs, is true.

The most vibrant girl in the room
he says as he offers to pay my bill.

I reach for my wallet and I’m reminded of my uncle and how much I love drinking with his middle aged colleagues– there in, within the safe haven of I being his– you know– I’m safe. I’m his niece. I want to be this guys niece, not his lover. I’m enjoying talking to him but I’m in no position to entertain Shiraz stained thoughts of fathering a nice, rich mans child- Not even close– Not tonight.

He goes to pay our bill and I launch in to a bold spiel about how one of my three main pet peeves is men paying for things– for me– you know– I don’t like it.

it changes things.

And it needn’t.

He laughs.

There is much more conversation. Much more. Between he and I, my sister and his friend.

He asks me what I’m doing with my life and I laugh as I tell him of this story I’m trying to finish.

I grapple for the bill.

I consider wrestling him for it but know full well that’ll only lead to more of the same–

You know–

I just want my sister and I to pay for our own dinner.

I tell him of recent mail received– and of Leonards victory over suffering.

He relays to me some charmed stories of men, spending a life time, trying to understand women–
I suggest it’s all much more simple than all that.
Because it is.
Think about it.
It’s not hard.

He throws down two hundred dollar bills, casually. He’s quite lovely really. Not showy. Not angry. Not even that drunk. And his face is really quite lovely. And his shirt. And his jeans. I begin to notice his fingernails. His posture. Little things.

He invites me back to his to discuss literature and my sister reminds us both that she has an early shoot– I still have to blog, I say. Really. I still have to blog.

We leave, my sister and I, tiddly and giggly–

“Did we just MAKE money?” I say as we stumble out.

We retrieve her film equipment from the boot of her car– and laugh our way home.



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