FIREFLIES

Having a drink at Bruno’s last night, Paul said, “I wonder if it’s me,” and laughed, trying not to sound plaintive but coming across that way.

I didn’t try to assure him it isn’t him; I don’t know if it is or isn’t.   He’s  reasonably handsome, smart, and employed, but women vanish, so he says, when he expresses interest. Maybe reasonable is the trouble.  Eros thrives on tumult.

“It’s just luck,” I said.  “You meet the right person, you click.  It doesn’t happen often in anybody’s lifetime.” Under some folds of cranial tissue was the recollection of being informed by a friend as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge of an i-pod app which finds ready-to-roll-hook-ups wherever you are.  He was willing to show how it worked, but I was driving.  I imagined the little screen lighting up like fireflies on a summer evening, blinking their sexual readiness from the lilac darkness.  That’s how romantic I am.

“I’m not asking for often.”

Shucks.  I didn’t want to start feeling sorry for him.  C’mon gods, I said a little prayer, give him a ticket on the tilt-o-whirl.  A glance around…every woman in the place was with somebody…said  maybe he should get an i-phone.  It’s rumored an i-phone is better than sex, anyway.

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