tic tacsPosted: July 24, 2008
I walked out of the passenger seat of a two-seater, right hand shoved into the bottom of the right pocket of my pants, fiddling with a penny that was minted in 1952, and left hand firmly gripping the air. She was across the street, being escorted out of a tavern with two people that consider three boxes of tic-tacs to be three square meals and gripping a book that I somehow managed to publish.
“This is incredibly awkward,” I managed to say. I left soon thereafter.
Come to think of it, that’s what I should have done. Instead, I took her, and the others to another bar, in which we talked about postmodernist art, the suprematist movement of the early 20th century, and just how awesome the book was in between awkward silences and drunken slurs of heartbreak and woe. There was also a lengthy discussion on table linens before passing out on lounge chairs.
“That was incredibly awkward,” I managed to say the morning after, over a coffee with an old friend.