An Exquisite lover is better than a mediocre listener

I sometimes find myself in a mood. Last time this happened I wrote about the golden girl, repainted into a muted version of herself. This time I wrote about the patrons at the same establishment. It’s not meant to be anything other than amusing. There are some private jokes and some floppy phrases but it’s two hours to publish and I haven’t written anything else yet so you get my odd, whimsical stream of consciousness. A kind of prose poetry for one who hates poems.

She’s a round faced Julia Roberts and he’s the blandest gent who ever gented. Some thick rimmed hipster tickles some ill tuned ivory as the radio fades. A commercial pops up: support public radio.

I rarely hear conversation truly murmur. Usually it roars, ebbs, or rings. Happy minute pops up. Chocolate and booze oozes carefully. It’s a short menu. The golden girl gleams on the corner. The slow pop of jazz blends the rustle of cash and squeak of leather under the sensuous cackle of comfortable laughter. Glug. Sweet, sour, lonely, surrounded.

The fish slowly explore their minuscule prison as a white coated professional looks on. I feel out of place without my heels; even Seattle casual insinuates elegance here. Strangers are friends and lovers avoid eye contact. Tennis shoes, haha.

My head feels pleasantly funny. I get moody when my partner is out of town. There’s something about knowing an oft warm home is dim and cool. My morning is too soon. Tomorrow will be languid yet tonight.. the night. This music inspires shadow and long glances. I’m tempted to seduce two young men but the pleasure of seduction ends at its inception. I’d rather be skillfully seduced but I doubt the existence of a satisfactory sensualist. I’d rather pay a pro.

A hundred jokes here. A dozen glasses; wine sloshes over the rims. The old school commode rings its wet call from the back. Feed me! demand the ATMs. Nothing over 10$ but no liquor either. Infinite secrets between the lines, stuffed into the stiff wooden pages.


Ah Ella. That croon. It tempts. Feel. Drink. Lust. Despair. The music is the only thing here that changes and even that simply cycles. Our bartender can never leave. We need him and he needs us. Capitalism and socialism both here, living yet fighting.

Julia and her perfect bland look blankly in each others’ direction. They’re thinking or listening or something. Their conversation is the sole absence.