The Girl with the Haesel Hair. No prelude here, haha. No prelude in the plaza.
I’m known as the guy who doesn’t talk. More than a kernel of truth in that. It’s insecurity. Don’t ever want to be on the unanswered side. I will only allow that with someone very special – who will then drive me to despair. I don’t let just anyone do that. Though maybe I should. Make everyone special, and therefore not special. Spend my entire social life on junk bonds. There’s a fucking idea.
Damnit, writing makes me tired. I could fall asleep right here, leaning over the counter, despite the morning’s caffeine megadose. I don’t want to write about it – but I need a nap. Oh yes I do. Droopy eyes. Leaning closer to my notebook in a soporific downward drift. Sleep would be so good. So so so good. Half lids.
I want to take a siesta. Like Vito Spatafore. Used to the mafia hardlife. Not used to the worker’s hardlife. Able to deal with violence and murder. But not tedium and tiredness, on a cold and endless winter morning, in rural New Hampshire. Commanding himself not to look at his watch – because he knows he’s desperately, hopefully overestimating how much time has passed – not time for lunch yet – but maybe… FUCK! Not even close.
Plates rattling, but I’m sitting on the lower counter like some postured dishgnome who has made his home in the pit, unkempt, uncaring, wet clothes. So I don’t see who’s there. Could be Haesel Hair, I don’t know. Wow, she offered to bring me something to drink. No one’s ever done that. I love newbies.