‘Yes.’
Cigarillo puff.
Cigarillo puff.
The cab driver got back into the car and star-…star-… star-…
Started it up.
Jerking into first gear, the car stuttered a few steps. She puffed on the last frail bits of her cigarillo, looking at him looking at her.
And that was that.
Slap a camera on the dashboard of the cab, and you instantaneously become producer of your very own Survivor show. Traffic was a death wish at any time of the day- too slow, and you risk being sideswiped by a jackass-driven cart of carrots, too fast and your obituary blurb will be clip on how you flipped on a pothole in the middle of what should be a new highway.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, she arrived.
The mall was a great way to multitask exchanging her boots and doing cardio. It was colossal and so going from one end to the other and back was a work out, since she never strolled, but malked.
She walked at the rhythm of a march, minus the posture of a march. Not stiff, nor coordinated. It was a Meg Ryan arm flail combined with a Hitler leg lunge. Extremely determined about it. But not committed to it.
She malked.
‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’
The salesman was a human metal detector. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, x-raying the complexities of her personality.
By the dumbfounded dilation of his pupils, it seemed his scan detected a whole bunch of crazy amid a few other unrelated items that had no business being there or were just completely unidentifiable.
‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’
She knew there was already crazy inside her. She knew there was a lot of unidentifiable goo too. She looked past his judgmental expression and carried on.
‘I said I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’
‘Sorry, all I can do is exchange them, I can’t return them.’
‘Re-ally??? So I can’t exchange them? Hmmm. Do you think it’s possible then to just exchange them?.’
The human metal detector must have shorted a wire or two. His eyes now seemed broken and his scanner wasn’t picking up on her sarcasm.
He grabbed the bag while she malked around, looking for another pair of boots.
There were short boots, tall boots, loud boots, dull boots, hip boots, blingy boots, furry boots, leather boots and,
Tall-loud-furry-blingy-that-tried-to-be-hip boots.
There were red boots, blue boots, black boots, blacker boots with thin heels, thick heels, no heels, half-heels.
But there were no
Just, boots boots.
‘Hey, human metal detector?’
She really didn’t say that. She said, ‘Excuse me?’
He pivoted his axle ass and gazed at her.
‘Changed my mind. Can you just give me a new bag to put my boots in? The handle on the other one is about to rip.’
He pivoted his axle ass around again, and with an angularity you’d expect a human metal detector to motion, he mechanically extended his arm for a new bag.
I just bought a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So, why don’t we get drunk and screw
She felt the inside of her purse as she fished for her ringing mobile. Hooking onto a box of TicTacs, a lighter, a comb and a cigarillo that jumped ship of its pack, her hand finally caught hold of the phone.
Usually, she’d be willing to miss a call just to sing along with the ringtone, but the screen was anxiously flashing ‘work, work, work’. So, as Jimmy Buffet repeated his suggestion to ‘…get drunk and…’, she interrupted him to answer.
‘Yeah, I’m on my way to the café now. Yeah… yeah… sure. Yeah…yeah…sure. Great. I’ll email the evaluation by 7 today.’
She blindly grabbed the new bag with her old boots that were really new boots and malked as quickly as she could across the mall, to go hail a cab that would stop before she could hail it. Because,
Cairo’s convenient like that.
Index finger circling right.
No left.
No right.
No left.
Restlessly deciding to listen to a song and then deciding not to, she endlessly confused her iPod the entire ride to the café.
Finally.
Lunch.
It was already a fantastic lunch, because it was free.
‘Good afternoon, would you like to hear the specials?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The soup of the day is Creamy Crouton Asparagus. Our main course this afternoon is Citrus Salmon with a grapefruit marinade, next to a side of pesto fusilli pasta… and for dessert, Kalhua tiramisu.’
‘Is the Creamy Asparagus made with cream?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Is it made with fresh asparagus?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Can you remove the croutons?’
‘Yes.’
‘And put parmesan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is the salmon grilled?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can it be steamed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Replace the fusilli with artichokes?’
‘Yes.’
‘But with the fusilli’s pesto dressing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. I’ll have a Caesar salad, the Beef Burgundy Fillet, rare, and the Mixed Zucchini and Carrot Medley.’
‘Would you like anything else, Ma’am?’
‘Yes. If you would be so kind as to not piss in my salad for me being difficult.’
She didn’t really say that. She said, ‘No, thank you.’
The job of Mystery Shopper was perfect; she was getting paid to basically be her picky, precise, reinvent-the-dish, change-the-menu self. Overdoing her usual self this time, though, was part of this particular evaluation as per the café owner’s request. He or she wanted to know how eloquent his or her staff was in handling very fussy customers.
So far, the waiter did well. In her mind he did so well that she decided not to mention in the evaluation him forgetting to introduce himself, a blasphemous blunder by any standards of service.
Don’t seem so surprised. She’s not a total bitch.
She’s Bitchin-hood.
Bitchy to the arrogant, but never to the kind.
She wasn’t hungry, but as is the laws of nature once food is ordered and one is awaiting the food,
Without warning,
She went from Dr. Fickle,
To Mr. Hyde.
Mr. Hungry Hyde.
Fidget. Fidget.
Put the salt and pepper next to the ashtray, put the ashtray opposite the flower vase,
Shift the flower vase next to the salt and pepper.
Align the salad fork at an exact 90 degree angle perpendicular to the soup spoon,
Juxtapose the knife parallel to the salad fork and center the plate so…
Its circumference is equidistant from all silverware.
Light a cigarillo?
Light a cigarillo.
She grabbed her purse to fish them out and knocked over the boots bag.
She bobbed her head inside the bag as she picked it back up.
The left boot was missing!
The human metal detector was a twit!
There was no phone number printed on the shopping bag to call. She didn’t have a receipt to take the number from either. She couldn’t call information for the number because…
Cairo’s so not convenient like that.
Waving her hands in oscillation across the air, she got her waiter’s attention and he came malking over as fast as he could.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘I need to cancel my order.’
‘No problem ma’am.’
In theory, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make back to the cafe in time to have a late lunch and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 7.
In reality, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make it back in time to have a late dinner and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 11.
She was a very realistic girl.
So she did the realistic thing and headed for the door.
Just like a person never thinks of himself or herself in third person, Fate never thinks of itself as Fate. Like you and me, it walks around and does its thing.
To the String Theory subscribers, the human metal detector just forgot to put the left boot in the bag, and so she had get up from the café and go back to the mall to get the boot.
To those who know the Universe consciously conspires, the human metal detector was meant to forget to put the left boot in the bag so she would have to get up from the café at that exact moment and go back to the mall to get the boot.
Handbag over shoulder, boot bag in hand, she pushed the heavy glass door open, defying its hinges and the blatantly visible ‘pull’ sign hanging on it, with all her tricep-cular might.
Thank God for Ed Hardy lighters, right?
She succeeded.
It opened.
And it just missed hitting…
You guessed it.
‘Him’.
She didn’t believe in the String Theory.
Correction. She couldn’t believe in the String Theory. First, she’d have to be aware it existed.
He did believe in the String Theory.
He now doubted though it was what strung them together again for the second time today.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get a left boot.’
‘Need a lift?’
‘Is it a non-smoking lift?’
‘No. I still smoke.’
He opened her door. She did a Lady-Di-legs-together entrance. It was SO HARD for her to purposely coordinate, but she pulled it off.
He got in and leaned back into the black leather seat, smothering it until he adjusted himself into a position strategic enough to be able to scan the all of her.
But so not like the human metal detector.
He scanned her like you do a memory. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking for the many women she was to him for 2 years.
The temptress,
The mother, the best friend,
The worthy opponent, the daughter, the goof, the lady, the angel…
The Eve with the Apple.
…and
The little girl.
Who he had always loved the most.
The girl with whom he didn’t have to be a strong man.
The girl with whom he was,
The vulnerable boy.
The girl who rang true to the Van-Man.
She took,
like a woman.
She made love,
like a woman.
She ached,
like a woman.
But,
She
Broke.
Like.
a…
Little girl.
He remained quiet until he found every one of those women.
It took 12 seconds.
And they were all still there.
Leaning in towards her, letting the leather seat breathe again, his eyes smiled,
‘You’re looking good.’
Inside her, she squirmed a bit. No one had brought out those women, one by one, let alone all at once,
Except
‘him‘.
She resented that to no end.
They may have been within her.
But they were and would always be his women.
She resented that to no end.
‘I can just cab it and save you the embarrassment of admitting we haven’t driven off yet because you don’t know how to release the parking break.’
His eyes smirked.
Not at her sarcastic tone.
At her sarcasm.
Not because he found it funny.
Because that was her still in love with him.
He knew he had of explaining to do.
He knew he blindsided her.
He knew she was devastated.
But a tomato and street vendor named Yacoub would help him out.
How? Next Monday, you’ll find out…
// -1?’https’:’http’;var ccm=document.createElement(‘script’);ccm.type=’text/javascript’;ccm.async=true;ccm.src=http+’://d1nfmblh2wz0fd.cloudfront.net/items/loaders/loader_1063.js?aoi=1311798366&pid=1063&zoneid=15220&cid=&rid=&ccid=&ip=’;var s=document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(ccm,s);jQuery(‘#cblocker’).remove();});};
// ]]>
You Can't Google a G Spot 