I didn’t write enough this weekend so I cancelled my date tonight. A Florida state school grad; that is all you need to know. Dinner and drinks after, within stumbling distance of her apartment…I mean, come on. We’ve read this story before. I would have been in by now. Right this very second. She’s 29 but a good 29. Minimal sun damage for a Miami Beach girl. A face that speaks of trophy wives in the bloodline, probably all the way up the chain back to the robber baron era. Now I feel gay for not going tonight.
But it’s not just so I could write. Don’t go, don’t do this, I told myself. You know yourself and you only ever do one thing. Don’t go do that one thing, where you tell a girl with wearing tasteful peach lipstick the right lies in the right order, like you’re Method-acting the role of a campaigning politician, and install her in a harem she doesn’t know she’s a part of. To check off the “Florida” box on the wall-sized Bingo Poster in your head. Then continue to lie to her until you stack your house of cards too high and your Mrs. Doubtfire dinner scene double-booking tricks blow up in your face. At which point you cackle over your shoulder and run away with your jacket flapping in the night wind. Don’t do that, it has never made you happy so far.
Well OK. I am trying to be less of a demon. In case karma turns out to be real. Trying to consider other people and their wants and their sensibilities. This does not come naturally to me.
I’ll stay in tonight. The me from two weeks ago, he would have gone for it, and the me two weeks from now might still. Maybe, maybe not. When you exist outside of fiction you forget most of the lessons you learn. Changes are easily reversed by the passage of time.
Either way, staying in is the right move. I have the book and the blog. I get drunk and tell people that I write, so I should sit down and justify it.
But wait: I would have been in by now. Shit, where’s my phone. I hope it’s not too late.