Before we go on, let’s pause for a bit… We need to give those of you women (or men who swing that way) with laptops or whatever mobile device you have stashed for just this sort of dishy emergency, a chance to look up barihunks. Oh, yes. They’re real. I checked. But the pushup video, with flashes of sweaty and shirtless greatness that a woman would have to be dead for them to not make her feel tingly in the nether regions, is interspersed with a stogy balding opera critic who repeatedly kills the moment. Sorry.
Jerry still had his moment. And he too was killing it, but in a completely contrary word usage. Who knew that The Toreador Song was his jam. Someone conjure the boy up a rose, or a cummerbund or a bull or a cape or at the very, very least convenient red curtains or a tablecloth. Writer! Oh, that’s me. Hmmm. A bull.
In Jerry’s daydreams, his fantastical, chameleon-named baristadidn’t just know her Carmen. Let’s face it, in his dreams she could do a little more than lug a tune along. In life, her singing was cumborsome like a portly lapdog stuffed into a bitty Louis Vuitton carrier made for nothing bigger than a princess chihuahua using daddy’s money for diet coke, cigarettes and blow.
Also in his dreams, the world wasn’t ending and some ass of a writer didn’t summon Ferdinand the Bull and his field of flowers to the middle of a spaceship with three-headed disco infernos and mini Laurence Fishburne a la Matrix impresonators with which to impress the girl.
All this and Jerry found being memorable difficult in a coffee shop. Would pouring his heart out be enough when idyllic visions of sugarplums and romping over unnaturally green mountain passes to waiting picnic lunches no longer seemed a plausible future?
Then he spotted the tablecloth.
