and wanted to get to it tonight.
So, the scene was set. A hot summer night. The older woman, and me, just the right amount of Dep hair gel, (‘ . . . delivering the absolute maximum in hold, performance and control . . . ’ apparently) plus the smelling faintly like sandalwood, aloe vera and fear, over-ripening in anticipation. My stratagem sketchily scratched on a four foot long Etch-a-Sketch pad, handily hung on the inside of a nearby closet door, a Kafkan-ly intricate game-plan I’d prepared for later reference. My map was a backdrop of mind-bendingly, over-rehearsed efficiency as pristine as the clothes I'd freshly plucked from the cleaners. ‘You keep the change, kind sir. Got to run, big night, you understand.’ Me, full of ego, a tip for the clerk – clanging coins rolling from the countertop onto the floor. Then there was the reassuringly suburban Anglo-Saxon food prep: Stouffers Salisbury beef steak oval patties with mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, secretly lifted from its tinfoil confines and now bubbling on mother’s fine china in the microwave. The Caesar-salad-in-a-bag nervously sprinkled with anchovy powder and mock-garlic-sprinkles completed the classy presentation of fine Italian dining. Finally, on the Seduction Menu, a sinful dessert of wild blueberries soaked in Triple Sec and Cointreau. Then, oh-so matter of factly, would be the nonchalant request, ‘Care to dance, my little chickadee?’ Me, Senoir Smoothy, the meek conniver with the first grift plan to get to first base, her unable to resist my mature Ricardo Montalbán-ish fantasy accent while slinking over to the piano to sooth the savage beast with thick, minor nine, gloomy Gus chords. Oh, and the scheduled master plan performance après le din-din, of me moisturizing her hands while quoting lines from T.S. Eliot's poems. (Here was this sexy cat, I thought