I’m on my way to work. As I pass near a guy on a park bench, clearly taking a moment’s respite before continuing his run, I hear, “You’re pretty for a fat girl.”
Luckily, I have the earbuds in, so I pretend I did not hear that, ignore him, and blithely keep walking.
Lothario has the effrontery to rise, and then jog backwards to catch up to me, just to inform me that most women say thanks when handed a compliment.
Wait… What? Oh, come the bleepity-bleep-oh-bleep-this-bleepity- bleep on! No!
To say I would not have been in the mood for such nonsense after my third cup of coffee is one thing. I’m dang sure not up for up at not even a quarter after seven in the feckin’ morn with not one drop in me.
“You’re right, and conversely most women don’t thank the person who back-handed insults them.”
I declare I can all but hear the crickets of confusion chirping in his head.
“How did I…?”
“Most men know better than to make a definitive statement then quantify it with another that negates it.”
I try to be helpful, but oh dear Lord –three things I pray– I think the crickets are even louder.
Why am I doing this to myself? Oh, wait! I’m not.
“Nay. Nein. Nix. Nope. Nyet. I’m out.”
I start to walk away when he puts a hand up.
“El Sol’s ascent has not attained sufficient altitude to engage in such feculence, dude.”
This time I’m expecting the succession of rapid blinks from him as a chorale of crickets join in for harmony, and I am not disappointed.
“I’m sorry… I just don’t get how you’re insulted.”
I note he’s careful not to touch me even accidentally as I move forward; he only wants to continue the conversation. That is the only reason I entertain this.
“Look, are all your public declarations of perceived attractiveness to unknown women attributed with their body mass?”
Oh, that sweet, sweet cricket orchestra crescendos for a moment, but I see when the magical penny finally drops, “you’re saying I would not have added that last part if you were skinny. Fuck. You’re right.”
“Okay” He sighs taking it like a champ, “I stand corrected.”
“And I exit, vindicated. Caffeination’s lack will soon make bitter my tongue. Better luck next time. Bon jour.” I give a short nod.
His amused expression tells me what I already know: my tongue has been bitter this entire conversation. I know he thinks it, but in this he is smart enough not to say it as I start to walk away again.
Points to House Lothario.
“Hey, one moment.” He calls out.
Demerits to House Lothario.
“Dude...” I stop and turn letting my face show how that lack is not working in his favor. “…be succinct.”
“Is it next time yet?”
Points to House Lothario
“You are pretty. Perhaps join you on your quest for caffeination?”
Fast learner! More points.
“Thank you.” I laugh, “Alas, I suspect I can tick at least a score’s gap between our ages. That brings you to a vintage within the bounds of that which I brought upon this earth. Négatif. This conversation is fini.”
I wave my fingers and walk away in a manner the requires no further quantification, as I don’t look back.
If you’re asking: What’s with the French, Rai? So am I. I have NO idea; I don’t speak it – but there it is.
[Side note: I do love the moments when my internal Oxford Dictionary overrides my internal Urban Dictionary, and it was in rare form considering my lack of morning coffee.]
Let’s see how others are quantifying their slices this Tuesday…
Slice of Life Tuesdays
Two Writing Teachers