If she were interested in fucking me she would have asked how the mac and cheese was.
I thought I had an opening. I had asked about the macaroni and cheese. I actually don’t know how it is, she said. I don’t eat cheese.
I’m not vegan.
An in. I like that you threw that in there, as though I were gonna judge you. “As though,” I said, not “as if.” I wanted her to know that if I were to ejaculate in her our offspring would use conjunctions correctly. I’ll tell you if it’s any good. That way you can present an informed opinion from now on. Keep the eye contact. She bites her lip; I am in. I will dig out this coffee shop waitress’ musky snatch after one of her stupid band’s shows. She’s a drummer, I gather, from her not being able to shut the fuck up about it to everybody.
Later she walks by and I’m eating it and she doesn’t ask how it is. She remembers nothing of my perfect off the cuff banter. All your charm is written in water. On the wind. By a unicorn that is only in your imagination. Women don’t remember you. They only remember famous people.
I need to get some notoriety from this shit. Plus I need my words and ideas to change lives for the bett– no, I just need some fucking pussy. I need the pussy EZ-Pass; actually talking to these girls is too damn hard.