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FRIDAY NIGHT . . . While the conversation of customers still in line animatedly describing a parking lot accident wafts over my head, the big breasted blonde barista brings over my freshly brewed Ethiopian Sidamo. Freshly brewed and dusted with five pink packets of Sweet & Low's and lightened with an iced white flood of Half and Half, this coffee ain't half bad. Might even be worth the $1.62 that was subtracted from my Starbucks card. Of course I slurp the same Java at the Starbucks inside the Barnes and Nobel for only fifty-four cents a cup. Startled from outside, I hear what sounds like the lid of a commercial dumpster slamming down. Turns out it is a Harley Davidson motorcycle engine starting, which has much in common with an eight-hundred pound trash container. Too loud for me by one half and even though I'm inside, my ears are being assaulted by the obnoxious noise.  Another little boy, sporting pea-sized balls, shouting for attention, rumbles into the sublime Scottsdale evening on the cacophonous Yugo of motorcycles. Today at work, I discovered one of the resident's, whose shoulder I was, literally crying on months ago about my pending divorce, was facing the same thing himself. For the third, or fourth(?) time. Weeks ago, a full-sized Ford Econoline E350 van shows up with the single word TERROS emblazoned on it's side. Sure to be a hit and the talk of the neighborhood as it pulled up in front of his home. (TERROS is a drug/alcohol treatment center for serious addicts, many times TERROS is the last waystation before the grave.) On his exercise walk one morning he stops by my door, trembling like a Chihuahua while being sniffed by a Pit Bull. He is obviously suffering from the D.T.s (delirium tremors). How very sad. While I might have handled my own break-up in a more mature manner, I'm happy I chose exercise, prayer and sleep rather than the Jack Daniels route. Although I had absolutely no desire to, over a period of too many weeks, I was forced to experience the depths of my emotions. An exercise which will prove invaluable in filling my stage and film character's with the stuff that makes them real. From last Thursday through this coming Sunday, I'll put in forty-eight hours at work, thirty-two of them at time and one-half. Even though, my January 2004 W-2 will still be 1/10th of what it was in the 90s. But, I'm happier now. Not jumping up and down Richard Simmons happy, but happy. I'm so much wiser too. So much more able to accept things because I understand a little bit more of how the world works. I viscerally understand why many people behave the way they do. A Rolling Stone's tune comes over the cafe's sound system. As "the spouse" I think back to the last business Christmas, oops, Holiday party I attended with the Missus. I see the cocktail powered fifty and sixty year old's boogying and gettin' down on the crowded dance floor. And I'm glad I never learned to dance. Some things should just be done behind closed doors. Like anyone over 35 dancing. Back at Starbucks, the casually dressed dating couple sits across from each other in the only two upholstered chairs. He's teaching her the arcane theory behind transforming an everyday baseball cap into a "rally" cap. His counter is responding with so few words, you might imagine she's reaching into her purse, pinching a gold coin and snapping it down on the circular table in front of them. I don't think the date is going so well. They'll probably end up in front of the alter before this time next year.
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TUESDAY . . . Finally. Driving to work at 5:15AM I am no longer forced to turn on the A/C in my car to avoid the annoying drip that usually begins from beneath my stooped shoulders. October 28th, 2003 and it seems as if summer has shifted to the southern hemisphere. Last night, rather than trucking it down to Starbucks to scribble on my memoir's while I delighted in the jabbering Jews, the studying students, the balding baby boys on their $35,000 eardrum bursting Harley's, the mildly inebriated talking as loudly as if they were standing next to a taxiing America West 737, the smokers of expensive, aromatic cigars and those smoking out their butts due to their recent visit to the pick-up-bar disguised as a Mexican food restaurant, I remained home and surfed the Internet. Surfing. And, solely in an effort to keep my larynx germ-free, scrupulously sipping down three meticulously measured 288cc doses of imported tequila, while I combed the net for tantalizing topics. Particularly striking and saddening were the photos of the California cauldron of fires that I discovered, oddly enough, on the BBC website. Even though I retired to the massive Malamud half-empty mattress at 9:00PM, after a 5 to 7 afternoon nap, I still awoke at 4:25AM Tuesday morn feeling not quite one hundred percent. I assume that was due to the after effects of the aforementioned cactus juice on my third favorite organ, my liver. Being the genius I am, I have to assume that even though I don't feel like I'm in pain, emotional pain, I must be in pain. Emotional pain. Well, I'm doing nothing as far as securing my financial future. And I'm starting to pack back on the pounds - nothing serious. And I haven't been to the gym for months. So, I take the low and easy road by avoiding my responsibilities and dulling the resulting pain with tequila. Not a stellar plan. I must get back to the Lala Fitness and also begin a sincere and genuine search for ways to create more income. Within three years I should be pulling down at least three times as much as I do today. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my income at work has dropped by over $400 a month right during the time the Missus is getting set to cut me loose. Cut me lose emotionally and fiscally. Speaking of the missing Missus Malamud, she is scheduled to arrive here in Scottsdale soon to see our youngest boy in his second school play of his senior year. Once again, we'll be sleeping together in the same bed. And I'm feeling nothing more than ambivalence about it. I've come to more or less accept the fact that this marriage is over. I have nothing against making an attempt at reconciliation, but, after having listened to the logic of Dr. Maggie, any attempt must be initiated by the estranged mother of my children. And must spring, uncoaxed, from her own heart. And I think that may be why I'm ambivalent . . . I'm unwilling to risk any more pain. Emotional pain.
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TUESDAY EVENING . . . Tonight I'm staring out over The Gold Coast. Hard to believe, but that's the name they gave this blend of Starbucks coffee. We are back to the evenings that have drawn over two million people to live in The Valley of the Sun. Tourists, traveling on the cheap, during our summer off-season when temperatures strike 110F, 115F or even the rare 122F degrees, cannot understand why anyone would live here. It's such a glorious evening, that rather than placing my tight ass in the consecrated Dr. Malamud woven green basket chair I instead strolled the area. Sporting my handcrafted Italian blue and beige shoes, I ambled by the cigar shop, the eyeglass boutique, the jewelry store (whose founder was murdered last year) and finally the pick-up bar disguised as an upscale Mexican food restaurant. Floating on the white-striped ebony ocean, I note the purely frivolous "look at how wealthy I am" offerings: the convertible CLK Mercedes, the topless Ford Mustang and the rag-topped 3 Series BMW, their ruby burglar-alarm-set lights blinking like so many buoys on the still surface. Remember how these days, we all laugh at the fashions of the 70s? As I watch the pair of teen boys in their baggy pants roomy enough to fit a black and white soccer ball into each pocket, with enough space remaining for a stylish flip phone, a pack of clove cigarettes, a can of blue and gray Red Bull power drink and a couple of hits of Ecstasy. I know we will be laughing at today's fashions in the future. The incredibly cute girl sits with her 613 calorie TCBY drink, waiting for her girlfriend, who made the much more sensible Starbucks choice.  Her pal exits the java store and sits across from Ms. TCBY and a torrent of boy-talk is unleashed between them. Which destroys my faux-image of beauty equaling intelligence and maturity. Of course, I know better, but I always hold out hope. I cannot believe that these incredibly beautiful young ladies are chasing after any guys. They really don't need to. I suppose that in the 'old days' their mother's or their older sister's would have trained them to remain aloof, leave their cell phone holstered, keep their hands in the own pockets and leave the Kleenex in the pantry. I see the cute Wisconsin-sized teen girl walking towards me while self-consciously pulling together the edges of her unbuttoned creme colored corduroy jacket trying to hide her massive milky-white cleavage. Wisconsin is, after all, "America's Dairyland", eh? I thought back to my high school love, Connie Boone (who in the vernacular was "stacked") and how rarely she wore anything that revealed the bounty that I looked forward to harvesting. I pull off my glasses and hold them up to the glare of the 90 watt lightbulb, and seeing the filth, I wonder why I didn't clean them before I left the apartment. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes that accumulated during my unsatisfying afternoon nap and think of my photographer telling me he would remove some of the bags under my eyes prior to printing my headshot. Some might consider it odd that I love my recently purchased $6.13 yellow pen so much. It's topped with a thumbtack-sized blazing, smiling, silver sun with leaf-like flames flying out from its edges. But the best part is the feel. Its dirty yellow color (#FFFFOO for you HTML fans) comes from a soft plastic coating which delights my pair of fingers and especially my thumb. I get up again and walk the concrete apron bounding the parking area, examining the round windshield decals that only security agents would notice. Arcane emblems that insure admittance to some of the wealthiest communities in America. I halt at the window of the "Fine Cigar" emporium and notice, for the first time, the S.J. DuPont pens on display. (The second ambulance of the night splits the darkness with it's Christmassy lights and stabs the silence with its screaming siren as it first slows and then accelerates through the busy Shea Boulevard intersection.) Looking through the glass, I fall in love with a ballpoint whose midriff is banded in turquoise with either end appearing to be actual silver. The clip end displays an intricate, delicate, and downright lovely scroll work. I can see some rich asshole now, who will buy my pen, jam it into the pocket of his custom made, 100% Egyptian long grain cotton, dress shirt and whip it out to sign his name and scribble initials on the pages of telephone-book thick contracts. Never realizing instead what beautiful words I could be crafting with the same tool.
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November 2003
SUNDAY MORN . . . 1:00 AM. I'm north of Phoenix working the swing shift. The door is propped open and the glorious Arizona Fall morning is sticking its moisture laden head in. It's been lightly raining on and off for the last eighteen hours. I've got Art Bell on the AM radio in the background with the ultra-whack-job Whitney Strieber (Communion author) describing, once again, his 1985 alien-adduction. My last two sleep periods (I can't say 'nights' since I'm working and sleeping both night and day) I've had dreams containing the Missus Malamud. Dreams that seemed so life like that after I awoke it took some sorting through to discover that they were indeed dreams and not reality. The most recent vision was that she was sarcastically encouraging me to do something. For years I've been recording my dreams, and like dream-researcher's who are paid millions of dollars, I've come to the same conclusion; that dreams are just the fumes of our brain's furious attempt to file away the day's happenings. The Missus will be here soon. We'll be sleeping together on the same massive Malamud mattress. Sleeping. Only sleeping. I moved boxes and boxes and boxes of my still boxed books from 'her' side of the bed into the unused area, one unfamiliar with my apartment, might term the dining room. Now she will be able to get into and out of the bed without crawling over me. Perhaps I should have left the boxes there, eh? Since I've lost so much weight, my old memorized audition monologs no longer fit me. And in search of but of handful of my dozens of monolog books, I sliced open the tape sealing a few of the boxes bearing the black felt pen scribbled notation, "acting books." I finally found several monolog books and picked out one drama and one serio-comic monolog to quickly commit to memory. Two monologs, that, recalling the overwhelming emotionalism of the prior months, I'm certain I can bring to life. How can I lay down next to my wife who doesn't want to be my wife anymore? We're still best of friend's. Almost like brother and sister. I think she even mentioned that every now and then. And not in an affectionate way, either. I've pretty much given up any hope of us getting back together - but I believe that particular attitude may be a step in a predictable chain of emotional steps to what I am going through. I'm still praying, literally to God Almighty, that we might be reconciled. I know He can change hearts. And in the Old Testament it unequivocally states that, God hates divorce. But even so, I know that Christian's get divorced. I know there are lawyer's who bill themselves as "Christian" divorce lawyers. The ultimate oxymoron: "Christian Divorce Lawyer."
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SUNDAY EVENING . . . She's back! We spent the afternoon napping together on the Malamud Mattress in my cramped apartment bedroom. Earlier, as we were climbing out of the mighty Peugeot, having recently arrived from retrieving her at the fifth busiest airport in the U.S. she sincerely asked, "Is it really all right that I stay with you?" To which I snappily replied, "Sure. Besides, I may get lucky." Which was met at the net with her stern, two handed spike, "Nobody, nobody, get's lucky with me." See? We're made for each other. My effing hair stylist really botched my-every-five-weeks hair dye job Wednesday, resulting in Dr. Malamud looking like some sort of maroon-tressed David Caruso. The Missus, being polite as ever, has not mentioned the unnatural color of my hair. Yet. But why should it matter?  She dyes her hair on a regular basis. Women dye their hair on a regular basis. As I scan the Barnes & Noble Café this evening, I can see that only the ignorant males do not artificially color their hair <grin> After the airport pickup, we had a late breakfast at the same restaurant, at the same location, that both our family's had frequented over forty five years earlier. We have so much in common. My hip began vibrating on my pre-sunrise thirty eight mile drive home this morning. (I've just got to find a tavern closer to the apartment.) It was the Missus, using her flip-phone, informing me that she was on the Fisher-Price-sized America West flight bound for Phoenix from the Lone Star State. (From the Lone Star State to the lonely state.) I was to pick her up at Sky Harbor Airport, Terminal Number Four, south-side, at 9AM. As I pulled up to the curb I noticed that she had gained back many of the pounds she had lost. I also noticed how old she looked, which, a priori, meant, I too look "old." We look "old." Dammit, we look our age. Now I know why many men, in unthinking, selfishness, oftimes take a much younger second bride. They desire a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty that will surely age and wither and become what? A thing, a PERSON, of non-beauty? I write, "unthinking selfishness" because, unlike the male of the species, females many times fall deeply in love with their older, wiser, mentor-mate. And when this husband-mentor-mate necessarily passes on years, sometimes decades ahead of his child-bride, she has that many years or decades to grieve her loss. That is, unless she's Anna Nicole Smith.
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THURSDAY . . . She's gone. I left her dozing on the couch this morning at 5AM. She left town at 1PM. The crowd at the Café at Barnes & Noble parts as Dr. Malamud enters and a secluded corner table disgorges it's guests, freeing up a home for the sad wordsmith and his portable reference library zipped up in a former 350 thread-count clear plastic bed sheet package. It is unusually noisy in here tonight. Most of the chatter coming from the high-priced, black haired take-no-prisoner's female tutor charging through hour three of her training session with the dazed looking pre-med student at a nearby table. Her machinegun-like delivery of Kreb cycles, chloride shifts and liver functions at first attracts and then hypnotizes the analytical side of me. Intelligent women just make my brain sweat. A boy girl student pairing, leaves a table, which in the hopes of suffering less glare from the lighting, I immediately claim for my own. Tonight's student of the tutor is not picking up things as quickly as the last one I observed. Now I wish I was closer, as the tutor apparently berates the pupil. A clear example of personality styles. Not that either student or teacher is wrong or bad - just that there is a natural conflict. Like trying to stir powdered creamer into lukewarm coffee. So many people author books. On the drive over, I learn Delilah has written one - walking to the Café I see Traci Lords on one book cover, Princess Di on the next. I must begin my book writing career, but I can't let that endeavor take me out of life or I'll soon exhaust of stories to tell. Won't I? I look at the back of the head of the college student at the next table. A probably $50 felt-like baseball cap crowning perfect, soft, straight, strawberry blonde tresses. With her left hand she touches her heavenly hair, six one carat or larger diamonds blaze in the artificial light of the Café as if they were still under the shatterproof glass of the jeweler's display case. Probably a $35,000 wedding ring. The Muse in me wants me to get up, walk the one step to her study table and ask her, "Excuse me. But how much did that ring cost?" She seems to be extremely happy, almost to the point of being giddy. How very sweet. No, really. A casual friend of her squats at her table to talk - she got married just three months ago. That explains the giddiness, eh? Actually, if anyone was desperate enough to ask me marriage advice, I would say that the first year is the hardest. I would also state, and virtually all counsellor's agree with me on this point, "Do not live together prior to marriage." I walk over to the turnstile displaying the currently faddish miniature books. I pick out two for future December birthday or Christmas presents for my daughter burdened with a skyscraper IQ. One is titled "Ductshui", the other  "
Zobmondo!!:The Outrageous Book of Bizarre Choices" and both contain the dry humor only the very intelligent can enjoy. A cell phone rings and rings and rings and rings and rings while it's owner, I'm sure, checks its built-in caller-ID. The ringing finally stops, and the rude dude, assuming that everyone in the Café wants to know his business, begins an endless conversation designed to impress 'eavesdroppers' with his importance and wealth. Disgusted (for I daily chat with some of the wealthiest individual's in these United States and for the most part, they are self-effacing and get around in unremarkable Ford Explorer's or Mercury Aviator's or even Jeep Liberty's.) I arise and relocate my writer's desk for the third time tonight. I gaze at the "Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller" poster. I recall the monolog I performed in my drama class from the same play. I hated it, as it was too dark for even me. But Dr. Malamud, without ever having seen the entire play, well maybe decades ago on a thirteen inch black and white tube-powered television of my parent's, poured my heart and soul into the dreaded words of Mr. Miller. Months later, I see the same monolog done by Dustin Hoffman. I am so encouraged by what I see. Because being extremely self-critical of everything I do, I still rate my own performance more subtler, more emotional and less spittle filled than Dustin's. It was the same reaction I had when I saw the DVD of David Mamet's play "Lakeboat." My Workshop monolog performance was far better than the professional Hollywood character actor. However, having been involved in movie work, I realize that it is rare that an actor's finest performance makes it to and through the final edit. Apparently, the rude dude, couldn't handle me moving out of the range of his voice, for now he is pacing the entire Café while he talks to his distant caller. What a dick.
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SUNDAY . . . As I prepare to leave the apartment this evening, the young Mr. Malamud informs me that he needs a "Hamlet" and a "Much Ado About Nothing" for his English Literature class. From the massive Malamud library, I hand him three paperback versions of "Hamlet", ask him to chose only one, and promise to buy the "Much Ado About Nothing-Signet Classic Edition" once I'm at Barnes & Noble. I sit at the forever-red traffic signal, my moon-roof open to the savory aromas of the expensive eateries and hotel kitchens lining Scottsdale Road. For a moment, I wish I again had the income to dine out virtually every night. Scenes of waiting sixty three minutes for the privilege to eat at the just-come-to-town "Romano's Grill" erupt in waves from my mammalian olfactory memories. Now I'm moving again, west bound on an island divided artery that cuts through the neighborhoods of the well-off. The food fragrances are being pushed out by the crisp smell of logs burning in long unused fireplaces. After all, it will dip into the low fifties tonight. As I approach the doors of the booktorium I spy the Rude-Dude from the other night saying, ". . . I go to Scottsdale Bible Church . . . ." to a trapped employee who thought he'd step out for a quiet generic cigarette break. The fumes of an expensive cigar tickles and delights my ample nose. Its pungent-sweet flavors reminds my soul of two long dead cigar smoker's: my beloved nine-fingered, former-carpenter Uncle Frank and Slinger Raceway owner, Roland Hader. So maybe el Rudo-Dudo isn't all bad, eh? Once at the Café, I carefully place my plastic encased portable reference library on an empty table, and using my gift card, purchase a cup of Starbucks coffee from the carefully enunciating barista, formerly of South Africa. Several ounces of Half & Half creamer and five blue Equal sweetener packs later, I return to my chosen table at the same moment the Rude-Dude, trailing a tobacco haze, greasily slides into a chair less than three feet away. I instantly grab my stuff and relocate to a far away table with six empty chairs pulled up to it's large four by four green top. Facing northwest, I regard the bare shoulders of the razor thin artist manipulating photos via Adobe Photoshop on her expensive laptop. I wonder if she's carefully shaved her armpits and what her deodorant would taste like. (Sometimes I get a little strange, readers.) An elderly gent scoots between her place and my own, accidentally causing one of my silent four-legged companions to screech. Her concentration broken, she snaps her sharp featured face around to glare unnoticed by him. An immense formerly pregnant hog and her mother crush a pair of chairs close to me. A less than one year old infant is held in her inexcusably globby-fat mother's arms. I swear if the baby begins to howl, I will pour hot coffee on it. Hell, I bet it can't even read yet. What's it doing at a bookstore? Maybe mommy thought the books were actually huge Kellogg's Toaster Treats? I step away to peruse the shelves containing books for writer's. In a book I bring back to my table, I grimace at such questions as, "Should I write every day?", "Should I write by hand or by computer?" All questions most likely asked by people who are either very young or should not be considering writing as a career. Queries like that reveal the asker to be eyeing writing as just another way to make a buck. How sad. Writing is an art. While the very precise rules of language can be learned and should be closely followed, how does one "learn" the desire to write? Any film actor can learn the blocking, memorize the lines, earn the Master's degree. (My heart is thumping now!) But while being restricted to using only the words of the author, can she give such energy to her character, give her imaginary person such a history - fill her being with such emotion, that it bursts out even when words are not being uttered? How can knowledge and empirical facts cause a writer to bare his or her soul?
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THURSDAY . . . A glorious night in The Valley. I'm outside at my original Starbucks, with just the slightest Fall sprinkles dotting the concrete. The air smells -- fresh. A Honda Element glides by. A bright yellow H2 Hummer rumbles by. A PT Cruiser slides by. With all these wildly shaped vehicles driving by I feel like I'm a character in that old Warren Beatty, "Dick Tracey" movie, or the half-cartoon, "Who Killed Roger Rabbit" film. To my right, about a football field away, shielded from the weather under the portico of the pickup bar disguised as a Mexican food restaurant, I notice a huge Pro-ball player gesturing to his male dinner companion. A patron opens the door of the cafe inches in front of where I'm seated, a shivering, submarine sandwich-sized Chihuahua cradled in one arm. 1950s music from the BOSE weatherproof speakers attached high up on the red brick façade rains down on me. A ghost of expensive cigar smoke fingers my nostrils. Life is good. As usual, the cafe begins to load up with patrons soon after Dr. Malamud lower's his lithe body into the uncomfortable green Starbucks imitation chair. I study the attractive forty-ish brunette as she enters with her female friend, who looks much older, and in fact, is closer to my own age. I love the brunette's perfume. It smells clean. Like a pungent soap. I want to marry her. The pair cleans off a table near me and their first snatch of conversation, from the 'ancient' blonde, is "Congratulations on your engagement . . . " Drat. My phone vibrates and ending the "buzz-buzz-buzz", I find it's The Boy. He wants me to meet him at close by Supercuts® to accompany him for his suspension-avoiding haircut. How sweet is that? I've been taking this now college-half-back-sized lad for his haircuts since 1991 when he was one quarter of the weight he is today. It's a tradition. After a record-setting time for a trim, we head for some real live home cooking. At Coco's. In our horseshoe-shaped booth, I soak up his what-happened-at-school stories like Thanksgiving stuffing sops up lovingly tended and carefully stirred turkey gravy. Dead set on again attaining ketosis, and without any drama or trauma, or patches or counseling, or diet pills, I order a Cobb salad sans croutons. Wow, two Frenchie words in a row. After I consume salad, veggies and unidentifiable foodstuffs, that a year ago I would have scraped off my plate when my wife wasn't looking, I'm full. But not stuffed. And I have no desire for any of Coco's normally incredibly tempting, lovely desserts. None. The Atkins' Diet that Mr. Wonderful introduced me to, somehow, biologically, chemically, hormonally halts a lot of the cravings one experiences on other weight loss plans. I know what follows is an imprecise description, but after consuming my Cobb salad, I feel clean. I know it's impossible to feel this, but my arteries, my veins feel like they are wide open and clean. On the Missus Malamud front I now feel . . . nothing. I can take it or leave it. The marriage. As a matter of fact, the prospect of total freedom vs. marriage-family-everyday-companionship is gaining appeal.
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WEDNESDAY . . . I was in a holding pattern tonight. The Café was full. I was forced to stroll by the same occupied table several times.
Silently passing methane gas one time, belching the next, sneezing the third time. Finally I shuffled by the table farting, belching and sneezing. My trifecta came in as, finally, the unworthy two arose and left. All the stealth warfare to occupy a dinkie writing desk right next to . . . "The Rude Dude" (Michael). Plenty of character's here this evening to write about. Funny that after such a long hard battle to gain my small piece of territory, I seem to have lost my urge to write. Earlier, while I was preparing my battle plans, I was also imagining the very real hardships faced by ancient scribes. The picture of having to scrape the viscera off of the inside of a goat skin, simply to stain a few lines of thought, tempered my angst of not having a table. I'm beginning to pick out the regular's here: Michael, aka: "The Rude Dude" and another 50-ish freak who sits and frowns with his ears plugged into a belt-hung CD player. I imagine Satanic voices dancing beneath his closely-cropped noggin chanting, "kill, kill, kill . . . " Remember the blonde newlywed I wrote about the other night? Well her and her female friend have just vacated their table and I see a chance to move away from "Michael" who, happily tonight, is not on his cell phone. However my relocation would put me within slashing range of the Satanic Voice's CD freak. I let my chance pass as two young ladies quickly grab the open table. They'll probably disappear tonight. 9:45PM and every table is taken. My eyes continue to be drawn to the dark-complected student, who brushed by me on my way in. She now studies with her male partner who is draped in the "Florida" tee shirt that dwarfs his fragile torso. She is poured into a short sleeve white blouse that is so tight, I swear I can pick out the blue veins, like the fine map-drawn lines representing narrow, two-lane country roads, making their way across her female globes. As I poke my hanging tongue into my dry mouth, I realize that she dressed that way on purpose. She had to stand in front of a mirror and see her own reflection. Why do young women dress like that? I'm not complaining, but why do they dress like that? Although I have no intention, need, desire, hope, yearning, longing, hankering, craving, aching or appetite to date, I am constantly picking out good looking ladies near my own age, well maybe ten or twelve years or twenty years younger. Okay, ok, any female over the age of consent. Let me begin again: I am picking out good looking ladies over the age of eighteen and first thing, checking their left hand for a wedding band. Not that I could ever tempt a married woman away from her husband or that I would if I could. It's just that it's plain stupid to go after someone who is clearly unavailable. But, "I'm not looking for anyone," I protest to myself.
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