Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Coffee Chronicles - Part 2

I'm sitting outside, at a wet table
My skirt is absorbing the rainwater on the wet chair
I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, while listening to a folk-singer
She's strumming her guitar and singing corny lyrics, of her own composition
She's very self-confident, I think
Though few people at the little street festival are listening to her
I wouldn't be listening, if I could avoid it, but I can't
Unless I give up and go home, which I don't want to do
I feel alive here, at the sidewalk cafe
Watching people walk by, even though no one sees me
I am invisible, which is fine - I don't want people to look at me
To look is to judge, and I don't like to be judged
But I do like to be invisible
I can look, without being looked at
I am looking now at a young man in a t-shirt and shorts
He is muscular, with a hairy chest and dark eyes
I wish he would stay nearby, so I could continue to look
I want to commit his firm, sexy body to memory
to be drawn upon later, when I'm lying alone in bed
needing some imaginary company
Apparently, that is too much to ask; he has moved on
Now my coffee has grown cool, and the music has stopped
There's nothing else to do here, so I'll go home
And be invisible, all by myself

Sunday, August 15, 2010

It's hot here, sitting outside of Starbucks
at a wobbly table, near the highway
with unpleasant music piped from a speaker
right above my head

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, but I don't know why
I could have ordered iced, sweet coffee
I could have sat inside the cafe
in luxurious cool, conditioned air
But - there were too many people inside
I don't like too many people
I don't like many people, either
I am hot and bitter
I wish I were cool and sweet, but it's too late
I was never cool, no matter how hard I tried
So, I might as well be hot, hot and sweaty
gasping for breath, but resisting my urges
If I must be hot and sweaty,
why can't I be in the arms of a hot sweaty man
Why can't I have a smooth, creamy man inside me,
instead of a hot, bitter cup of coffee
Next time, I'll go to Sexy Bucks, instead of Starbucks
where I'll order something sweet and filling
And I'll stay inside the cafe, where it's cool
so I can be hot in comfort

Sunday, August 08, 2010

A Night in the Life of an Art-loving, Claustrophobic Nymphomaniac

There were only a few people in the art gallery when I first entered. I was able to peruse the paintings in peace, with no one brushing against me or breathing on me. I moved slowly down the corridor, crossing the aisle when anyone came too close. But gradually, more and more people entered the room, sucking up the oxygen, raising the temperature, and talking, talking, talking incessantly. I felt the nerves along my spine start to quiver. I tried to rein in my rising discomfort, but as more and more bodies pressed in around me, I began to feel breathless and anxious. It would be only a matter of time before someone actually would touch me and I knew I would lose control if that happened. I tried to breathe deeply and relax, but it felt like there was no air left in the room. I had to get out, but how? I was surrounded by people. There was no clear path to the exit. I looked around frantically, trying to find an opening between any two bodies that I could slip through, without touching anyone, hoping desperately that one clear path would lead to another and I could carefully zig-zag my way to the door. It was getting hotter by the minute and I was sweating and shaking.

Just then, I realized that I was standing right next to a man who looked just like Johnny Depp, but with a great build. He was wearing tight pants and an Italian-style shirt, open at the collar. In a flash of inspiration, I realized that pressing against him wouldn't be intimidating at all. In fact, it seemed like a really good idea. I caught his eye and brushed against him, saying, "Excuse me, Mr. Depp." He said, "No problemo, signorina," and embraced me. I swooned in his arms. The crowd parted, as he carried me outside, into the cool, moonlit night.