Hi there! I’m, uh, not used to a traditional thing like a “blind date,” but, well, our mutual friends seem to have high regard for each of us and an adherence to classical forms. Well, here we are at the symphony they bought us tickets to. Shostakovich? Name doesn’t ring a bell for me. And I guess we’ll be…ha! ha!…sitting next to each other for the next coupla hours. Uh? Huh.
(Such an unusual perfume or body wash. Eau de lacquer factory? A bakery that specializes in macaroons and rum cakes drenched in maraschino cherry liqueur?)
Wow, caramels—were you eating any? Do you have any more? So sweet! Oh, no, they were currant candies?
(Geez, there are currant candies? A ‘currant affair’ of which I was unaware? I’m funny! Should I say that aloud?)
Sooo, they’re such nice under-currants to the caramel!
(She’s not laughing! Dammit—not funny.)
Oh, and you launder your blouse with apricots? That’s a thing? Wait—what? Earlier today you put apricots in your ears to prank your primary care physician?
(What the schnitzel? I wish I could stop smelling like the cashews and almonds I sautéed earlier today in my roommate’s ghee.)
(The music is really compelling. Still…she’s staring at my lips? She’s about to kiss me? Here?)
(Spicy, minty, kinda cloying in a candied popcorn way. Was she at a carnival before coming to meet me? Is she wearing synthetic underwear? Oh, cripes, why do I go there?)
Did you have fossilized orange slices before meeting me? Were you at a political rally discussing the Federalists and policies conducive to good governance?
(My brain is betraying me again! Wait! Another kiss—like a slow-developing Polaroid.™)
(I think I like these kisses…and what a lingering aftertaste. Mmmmm…desserty…Star Wars storm troopers. Star Wars storm troopers?? Brain! Stop the self-sabotage! Mmmmm…this is Oscar bait…she’s Meg Ryan and I’m Tom Hanks. Sangria spiked with Sriracha sauce. I’m enjoying being a beta male here…what sorts of things should a beta male talk about? Stripper perfume? No, no, no! Stop that, brain! Oh, I’ve got something.)
You know what Shostakovich probably ate with his premium vodka and black tea? A sumptuous, yet curiously light, chocolate fudge on an oh-so-buttery poundcake. You think that, too! Really? Mmmmmmm.
(It’s nobody’s fault! We’re destined to be lavas!)
Need to erect a mountain range? Just you wait a few hundred million years, baby. I’m coming for you.
–Our thanks to Glenmorangie for the sample!