Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

Post Love Forty Eight

I had gotten an insider tip. An art collective based in a loft down the street was having a sale. First come, first serve. I got up early saturday morning, for once, and walked over. I could see two people making their way towards the building from the other end of the street. I sped up. They did too, but I got there first. I scrambled around trying to find the elevator in this old deserted office building, and decided to head for the stairs instead. All twelve floors of them. My thoughts were still in slumber, too early to make good decisions under pressure, so when I finally got to the door, they were already there. Damn. I caught my breath as they made small talk, a short skinny guy in a dirty loose tank top, thick framed glasses and a moustache, socially brave as to make up for his stature, talking to the tall girl in a summery dress and big blue eyes. I joined in. We laughed about our frantic race to the top, and asked what items we were looking to score. Other people started showing up. A line was forming.

Once we realized we were looking for the same stuff, I told them they got there first, so it was theirs. Elevator or not. This inspired them to tell me I was a nice guy. I wasn’t sure how that had happened, but I took it as a cue to turn the conversation to the girl. She was looking to buy a painting, mainly. I wanted it too. We started talking about local artists and realized we both used to go to an art gallery that had since closed. She said a new one had popped up in the area. I asked her for the address. She didn’t know it, and started digging for a pen instead. I’ll give you my number, or… actually, let me have your facebook… and I will send it to you. It was a strange fumble. She was nervous. 

She had a natural summer tan, and freckles. She was sweet, pretty, warm. She was so different from all the girls I usually end up talking to, it took me a while to even realize she was cute. And it took even longer, in fact right up to the nervous phone number stumble, until I realized she liked me. That was probably the only reason she did like me. I wasn’t trying to impress her, I wasn’t nervous, I didn’t know what was happening. I was just there, being me, wanting the painting. And a new typewriter, and whatever else was up for grabs. 

There was a line of at least thirty people by the time the doors opened. Against all that had been agreed upon, everyone rushed in. It was total chaos. Hordes of filthy artists running amok in their version of paradise, lusting greedily over whatever they could get their hands on. I grabbed the typewriter, and waited in line for a look at a guitar. The girl walked over. Hey, I’m going to take that painting. Sorry. She smiled. She was beautiful. The guy in front of me wasn’t taking the guitar. In the split second of my frantic compulsions, I gave priority to the things, the scores, the great deals over the great girl. I blurted out something stupid to her as I was handed the guitar. I inspected it and listened to the salesman, for a few brief seconds, until I realized the situation I was in. I looked over my shoulder. The girl was gone. 

I knew that was the last time I’d ever see her, but I told myself not to be stupid. She liked me, she had my info, she was going to contact me. I turned back to the guitar. It had some blemishes on the body. It had a bent neck. It was worthless. It was a lot like me, and my ability to recognize a situation for what it is. The poor girl had made all the moves and I had brushed her off. She was a sweetheart. And I was a guy walking home with another dusty typewriter.

  1. drunken-soberness reblogged this from postlove and added:
    sentiment captured...self-doubts. Read...he usually does.
  2. postlove posted this