So Much Better On (Recycled) Paper

A recycled version of my original...

So Much Better On Paper

Small talk annoys us both, but we still converse about shit that don't matter with the intention of finding a common, alluring relay of thought. She knows I'm bored. Somethings wrong. Somethings missing. I can't remember the last time we had a sober discussion that held my A.D.D. attention span while sober in the light of day or the calming shade of night. Bartender, please save me. Please make her interesting again. There's definitely an awkward idiosyncrasy between ordering a drink in thirst, and ordering a drink to numb yourself from the company you keep. Either way it can't be poured and/or drank fast enough. Please don't speak; the tranquilizers haven't taken affect. Only seconds went by and as my delusions hit my bloodstream like a junkies fix, and so did her question. "So, what do you want in a girlfriend?" "My penis", answers my second brain. Luckily, anatomy never connected a man's second brain to his mouth, so she didn't hear that. Plus that's not what I was really thinking anyway. The funny thing about that question was I saw it coming, even expected it. Yet I never intended to ever answer it. Not because I don't want to, or refused to, but because I don't know the answer. Another long sip injects more phantasm into my veins and prevents me from speaking. Even when I finish drinking I leave my lips upon the glass to avoid a reply, keeping eye contact with an ice cube instead of her. Out of my peripherals I could see her reaching def con 5 due to my avoidance of her query. When she realized I was not going to answer her or use my 3 remaining lifelines to at least fake an answer, she walked away. But before she was out of audible range, I heard these words, "When you know the answer, let me know". The sad truth is I won't let her know, but it was then, for the first time, I really cared what came out of her mouth.
 
So for the rest of the night, I sat alone scribbling, which was actually refreshing of sorts. I went through 7 keno pencils, and the sound of ice cube rattles kept bringing me pages to write on, as each drink's companion was a small square napkin. At each delivery I asked for extra folio in lieu of the novel I was drafting. I never saw myself composing in a bar, but it was the best way to observe the asinine, male/female coital reciprocity. Metaphorically perfect, since this environment is where I met my first wife, and that worked out well didn't it.
 
Observe. Write. Listen. Write. "No this seat is taken". It wasn't entirely untrue. I was frankensteining my napkins in a nice neat stack sitting across from me. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I took bits and pieces of every woman that stole my attention. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I felt much like a serial killer, with one gross difference, I wasn't there to designate a victim, just to gather the attributes of the perfect woman. And then it hit me, just as I heard the words "Last Call!"
 
I gathered up all the napkins but one, and drowned them in my last watered down drink. I grabbed keno pencil 8 and for some reason i had the death grip of a high school student at the Saturday Afternoon Test.(Obscure reference to my favorite love story) I jotted this down on the last blank napkin and left it on the table right next to keno pencil 8…
 
…Divorcee's, widower's, the broken hearted. We make lists. Lists that define our next journey; learning from mistakes, and embracing quality's of the once loved. The problem is, they always look so much better on paper…