Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Second Person Singular

I look at him and he looks at me and I have no fucking idea who he’s looking at ‘cause there’s a bunch of stuff coming out of his mouth waaaaay too fast for any normal human being to process. He’s got all the elements of being something and doesn’t seem naïve or stupid, but he’s just too intense.

--

Why is this guy looking at me like I’m something on a microscope slide?

--

So after a number of e-mails, I go to lunch with this quirky guy from work. We get some salads and talk a bit. He asks a lot of questions and talks really fast. He’s also a fast walker, which bugs me. He’s asking a bunch of standard stuff, but it kind of feels like parry-and-thrust. We sit down.


He asks how long I’ve been in the city.

“About eight years now.” I ask how he’s enjoying his time here.

“Discovering new things.”

"Like cocaine?"

“Whoa! Where did THAT come from?”

Christ. An amateur. I figured as fast as he was going that speed was his deal.

He asks if there’s anything about French in particular that intrigues me.

Enough already.