The streets were still covered in the dew that lingered the night before. A cold morning blue breeze pierced my winter jacket. The cold cut me like a knife, but I enjoyed it like a nice hot cup of coffee summarized in a sharp tip. This is my masochistic morning ritual, topped off with the spark of a flame hitting my cigarette. I don’t get the lights because I don’t see the point, nor do I see one in the existence of chilled wine. The sun was about to crack open and I’m not sure if I remembered my car keys. I took a deep drag of the cigarette and held it with my lips. Rubbed my hands together rapidly and checked my pockets. Keys rustled in my pocket like a rattle snake in the shrub. I took another drag and left Nora’s porch. Or was it Doreen’s? It was something weird with an “or” in it. There was a drunken revelation about it the night before that I’m unsure if I paid attention to.
Nora. Her father wanted to name her Nina and her mother wanted to name her Alicia. It was either “n” or “a,” so they compromised and met halfway at Nora. “N” or “A,” get it? Well, I’m sure her delivery was great last night, I mean, I remembered it now, right? But that’s really more of a story revolving around how two people can work together for an unforeseen result which inevitably became the ideal result in the end, that two people used a caustic medium and generated an original, untapped method, of naming a child. It’s so fucking cute; I think I’m going to try topping that method when and if I get one of those. Maybe with a raffle out of a top hat, provided I can find a top hat. Argh, it gets aggravating at times when you have to warm up the car in the mornings. It’s fucking cold and it makes me think about pointless shit. Am I the only person in the world that thinks about pointless shit when I am doing absolutely nothing? Waiting for something is considered doing absolutely nothing by medical standards… in my medical book at least.
“Why do you do that?” Asks Dave. Dave is short for David, which is short for David Walberg. No relation to Marky Mark. Slender man, about 5 inches taller than me at about 6’4, skinnier, comically skinnier, like a Who from a Dr. Seuss book, with a 5 o’clock shadow that hadn’t been minded even 24 hours after… well, 5 o’clock. Though awkward in appearance, still more loyal than a hound-dog, and my most trusted confidante. Simply because his opinions seem to be one hundred percent on target with the options and/or solutions I absolutely do not want to explore.
“Do what?” I ask back.
“That thing where you make everyone wake up earlier than you would, then show up late to your own thingie.” Says Dave with an almost blank face, minus the corner of his mouth which is a demeanor he employs when he is about to give away the answer to the question he asked.
“I miscalculated the time….” He proceeds to interrupt. “I’m just fucking with you man. If you weren’t such a nipple about waking me up early, I’d probably be asleep till noon, maybe later. …Most likely later.” He scoffs while turning back into his breakfast cheese-croissant. I’d been having these meets with Dave in the mornings for about three months, yet I’ve never fully understood why. I thought I figured it out once, but can’t seem to remember what I had concluded.
“Well I’m happy to help. At least you make better conversation than a cat. Not as soft, but I’d say just as whimsical.” I reassured him.
I hate these fucking automatic toilet flushers in the public restrooms. If I’m there for too long, they flush by themselves. That arrogant slushing sound only makes it harder for me to go. The city is obviously wasting aquatic resources even when I’m doing number 2. The number 2, that only human interaction you can do in front of another person only if you have complete trust and faith in them. I number fucking 2’ed on this fucking art-noveau shaped porcelain bowl, and it flushed on me. I can feel the vapors reaching back up into my exit chute. Some people can’t stand public displays of affection, some can’t stand public humiliation; but I just can’t stand public toilets.