ALONE

Alas the cloud of disdain and displeasure has shifted a bit; the sun peeps forth and warms my countenance with hope eternal.

Jesus Christ. I sound like Barbara Cartland. Needless to say, my mood improved. I did exactly what I said I would do yesterday. I cleaned house, I bought groceries, and I skipped the gym. I couldn’t tear myself away from internet porn (3 wanks); the thought of getting cleaned up to run a treadmill seemed too overwhelming and a smidge too physical so early in my day.

But I eventually pulled myself together and managed to hop a bus downtown to a nail salon I favor. Yes, I’m THAT gay guy with the no-chip manicure and pale pink toenail polish. And I do mean ‘pale;’ actually it’s a whisper of pink. I suppose if I was poolside Palm Springs someone with astute observation skills would note the tidiness of my toes. My hands look like those of an altar statue. The Vietnamese nail tech said I should be a hand model. Actually she said “hend modder” but I don’t want to read as bitchy and judge-y.

TROLLOh Hell; I am bitchy. So here goes: later, much, I was cutting through my building’s parking garage to shop the adjoining convenience mart. While the prices are highway robbery the sheer convenience of it trumps any thought of putting on better footwear to trek further for coffee creamer and peanut butter. Halfway through the garage a car door slammed and someone shouted “Hey, what’s your hurry, honey?” And I instantly knew, minus any turnabout, what nuisance neighbor lobbed that question.

How can I state this minus any trace of gay witchery? He’s a troll. And I mean that in the most kindest and caring fashion as, you see –if Hollywood Central Casting was actually looking for someone who lives under a bridge with a raggedy, mean-spirited goat he would be the bell ringer. He’s got yellowing teeth, a triple chin, a wonky eye, and those bothersome skin-tags flicking his eyelids that would have me at my dermatologist’s office manning a cryo surgical blow torch in no time flat.

I allowed him to catch up because I’m a saint. We chatted polite conversation, as neighbors do, for the remainder of my walk. I slowed my pace as he is one to sort of shuffle along. Midway through ‘the weather turned better’ and noting his pending dinner plans, he lobbed “what floor do you live on? do you live alone?”

It sort of irritated my shit, his point-blank questioning of my living status. And, in genteel circles, isn’t the kinder inquiry ‘are you partnered?’ But I answered his question in the affirmative while lobbing my apartment floor number. I didn’t give him the unit number for fear his cold knocking for a cup of sugar. Yes, I live alone. I walk alone. I do most of what I do alone. I never really considered it to be a bad thing or a sad thing. Still, his question nagged me into the late evening. “Alone.” I chose this. I want (wanted) this. And while he obviously doesn’t live with a goat he had surely gotten mine.

 

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