Fashionably Late Birthday Party, Saturday, July 15th, Cotton & Second, just off Commercial, BYOB, friends, instruments, sweets, savouries, BBQ-ables, drinks, bubbles, whatever-you-like, appropriately pass it on.
The silence was deafening, heavy with threats. To break the quiet, my friend asked, “Alright, what’s the average penis length?” I asked, “Average average or average that I’ve encountered?” “Both,” she said. I did a quick calculation using the wrist of my right hand, quickly marking off lengths from the tips of my fingers. She spit laughter, “Did I actually just see you do that?”
There was a behalf-of-someone-else marriage proposal in the comments section of my poll post. I don’t know either of the men involved, but it made me smile through my ridiculous sun-burn. Not sure if I’m really marriage material right now, poorly tanned red leather for skin, hobbling around everywhere on my cane and wincing. If I move the wrong way right now, I’m liable to crumple like a burning photograph, clutching at my ruined shoulder or irritable wrist. On the up side, I came home to an answering machine message dismantled into merely someone scatting with the word ‘beep’. I can’t even tell what gender the person is, let alone figure out who I’m to call back. Congratulations mystery caller, you win the Interesting Yet Disadvantageous Communication award. Tonight, it’s a paperback copy of The Fall by Albert Camus. Only trick is, you have to call back and actually leave contact information to get it.
I pulled out a cheap pink striped restaurant mint. “Wait, no. I have better ones.” My hand dug into my pocket again and emerged with an ouzo ball. “I’m useless for this right now,” she said. I looked at her face, fixed behind the shield of her helmet, looking like a sixties movie astronaut, then at her gloved hands resting on the arms of the motorcycle. “You’re right.” I crumpled the blue foil wrapper off with my fingers, reached up under the plastic screen and placed the candy into her mouth. “Drive safely.”