Wooing and House Parties

Anytime I go to a party, especially a house party, I have great expectations. I have ideas. I'm on I-75 so in the time it takes to get from I-75 to Bee Ridge I've already worked out all the dialogue that will be spoken between myself and my future bride. She'll be wearing tennis shoes while everyone else wears heels. Her dress will look like a burlap sack and I'll wonder if she's washed her hair--though she will smell quite wonderful. Like squirrels on a summer night. Lily's and pomegranates, or snow. She'll smell like snow. And wild berry's. It might be a special lotion, I don't know. Her fingernails will be her own and her eyes will drift around, never settling, never sending messages. I hate codes. I never joined the navy. Everything will be perfect. The way she'll dip her head and put her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the outburst of laughter I've caused her with another one of my brilliant digs at "things". What a girl. Doe eyes and crooked teeth. My angel.

When I arrive I soak in the size and sterility of the house. Everythings white. Chairs have yet to be broken in. Virgin beds and bath tubs. Windows lining the walls. No one dares sit down. People mill. Drinks are drunk. Cigarettes smoked. I talk to people I know, knowing in mere moments I'll stumble upon true love. This is where it happens. Here the levy breaks and my heart floods open. Choirs will sing. Poets will wax. As I go on, with my dear friend Punchy, we discuss metaphysics and loneliness in the midst of crowds. Unrelated. Unregenerate. We joke about dancing, then get a refill.

I realize, and quickly tell Punch that she isn't coming to me. Wooing is a mans work. I bid him goodbye for a moment and turn to the crowd of flesh and booze. I make my rounds, circling the large room, looking for "the one." Certainly she's here. Of course. Makes sense. I want her to be. She will be. There she is. A bag made out of an old stuffed bear. Her hair is a disaster. She's small but balanced. Her eyes are confusing and glorious. Oh Punchy, if you had only had the courage that I have. Here I go while you stand alone sucking on your beer. My pathetic friend I've ventured out into this world, this house party. While you, wait for your dreams. Oh no my beloved. A man must act.

"You changed your hair."
"Whaaat?" She turns.
"Your hair, it's magnificent."
"Howww did you knoww I chaanged it?"
"I've been spying on you."
"Whaaaat?"
"I'm joking, lets be friends."
"Okkaay. I like that."
My God this girls drunk as hell. I think about punching her in the forehead, but decide maybe still, that love is to be found.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
"Jasmine."
"Aladdin." I extend my hand.
"Nist to meet youuu Allen. I can't find my friendsss."
"I'll help you. What do they look like?"
"They look like people. They're people. Geez. I'm not out, hanging out, with like, some zoo monkey animals, I'm people with people. What did you say you were again?"
"Umm, Aladdin?"
"There she is! KERRY! FUCK YOU! I LOVE YOU!" Jasmine and Kerry hug each other for a little bit, then I punched them both in the forehead and walked back to Punchy. We talk about fastballs and sartre. After a while I went home and thought about myself.