Soft Favourites

It's almost 4pm and I still haven't left my bed yet. I am lying here with a small clock radio improperly tuned to some easy listening top forty station on the am band, and the hits just keep coming. I did awake earlier though, to phone Frannie so that I could apologize for rubbing her hair, telling her that I like to wear women's hosiery, and offering to tuck her into bed before I left her place last night. I don't want any discomfort to fester between the two of us, so it was best to take care of it right away. But I am getting all ahead of myself, so let me tell you how it all came about.

It was friday, and I spent another lazy day at work updating my resume and lunching with Tony. Before I knew it I was sitting in a restaurant that is more like a bar with a massive ceiling, and bad art. Leroy and Enedina were celebrating their final day at a publication here in the home town. I bought a bottle of wine to toast their freedom, but wound up drinking half of it by the time 7pm rolled around. Louella was there with a friend, and not much has changed since Tuesday, except that Louella looks even more lovely with her hair down.

Catching a glimpse of Leroy's watch I realized that I was going to be late for my 7:45 dinner with Julia, official driver for the Portland road trip. After all that wine I had to go to the washroom something fierce, which, combined with my tardiness, dictated a mad man's jog to the french bistro where I was to meet her. It was about four blocks away and named after a man eating, swamp dwelling creature. I had to run through hoards of valley trash on their way to a U2 concert, and endure a mid-40's couple slowly driving up the street in a convertible corvette blasting Beautiful Day.

I didn't realize the restaurant was such an affair. Now I know that it's one of the finest french restaurants in the country, but I wasn't aware of that when I burst into the front door all sweaty, hair looking wild, half drunk, and shifting my weight from foot to foot while getting directions to the washroom from a hostess that made me drool ever so slightly. Julia had watched the whole production from her table, and said it was very cute, which put me at ease as I nervously took stock of my surroundings while I was being seated. Julia looked smashing, I could command respect from the rest of the room in a wife beater shirt with her sitting across from me. She is much like her friend Unice. A tad too young, has money in her family which is usually a style killer, but manages a look that's edgy and classic all at the same time. She was wearing a black dress, a string of pearls, and a green vintage cardigan. We ate a cheese fondue with bouillabaisse, and drank a bottle of gewurztraminer. The whole purpose of the visit was to pay Julia back for the ticket to the festival in the south that she bought me on her credit card. I tried to convince Julia to come to the opening at the gallery around the corner, but she had a ticket to a sold out show, so we had to part ways. Saying good bye on the street I hugged her perhaps a bit too long, and thought about our trip at the end of the month.

Within minutes I was transported into the most wonderful environment. A small collective of artists had turned an art gallery in the old part of town into a suburban recreation room. There was shag carpet, wood panelling, bad lamps, games, tables, couches, a beer fridge, and a loft bed constructed in such a way that perpetuated a clubhouse mentality. All the artists involved wore red sweat suits. It was packed, and the image of a guy in a sweat suit standing in the middle of the room making grilled cheese sandwiches for everyone on a Snack Factory made it seem like we were at the best house party ever. Frannie was there waiting for me and we grabbed a seat at the pseudo computer area, drank wine, and drew on the chalkboard laughing at our silly iChat humour. It was still early but the gallery was getting so crowded it was a bit much so we decided to leave.

Frannie wanted me to come to her place in the west, by the beaches, and it's pretty far away so I was worried about getting stuck out there, and what might happen if I couldn't get home. I only hesitated for a second though, and soon after was headed for the west in her Camaro. She pressed the gas peddle with a sharp and angular brown boot, and it was then that I could see that she had the greatest knee high socks on. And I was thinking how much I liked socks and hosiery, and decided to tell Frannie at once. Instead though, I got mixed up and blurted out that I like to wear women's hosiery. So now Frannie thinks I am a cross dresser.

We got to her place, blasted some music, smoked a joint, looked at the city, and talked about the future. I don't know how it happened really, but it was very late, and I just starting rubbing her hair. I remembered Frannie telling me earlier in the week on iChat how much she longed for the touch of another human. So in my drunken state I suppose I wanted to help her with that a bit. She told me I had the softest hands, one of her favourite things. Then I had this insane vision of tucking her into bed before going home. Which sounds so slimy now, but I just wanted to take some of her lonliness away. Frannie thankfully declined, and although I am certain that my intentions were admirable, no one should be trusted in a woman's room after drinking that much wine. I slept all the way home in the back of the cab knowing full well I would pay for a night of such wild abandon.

I haven't been able to rouse myself from bed ever since I got home. I found out Katie had some guy over while I was busy galavanting all over town last night. He cooked a lovely Cuban dish for her while she got to relax, and that made me happy in some ways. She deserves that, and I am unable to do those things. I only seem comfortable with a cold shoulder, not warmth and longevity. So even though Katie and I drank a bottle of wine in her lovely claw foot tub the other night, ranking as one of the highlights of my existance, I can't shake the feeling that she deserves something better than someone who is constantly looking for something they can't define. I will keep looking, I am not alone. I can tell from all the sad songs coming out of this little beat up radio, mixed with a bunch of static, of course.