Saturday - House of Biscuits

The familiar and expected smell greeted his nostrils as he moved into the driver's seat and began to fumble with the seat belt buckle. The car smelled like all old British cars, a warm and pleasant smell of leather and wood. He liked the smell, and he liked this car, but he was running late and he couldn't get the seat adjusted exactly to his liking, and the seat belt buckle wasn't quite right either.

'Fuck!' he shouted to no particular target. He just wanted to use the word. He loved this word. He never grew tired of this word. It amazed him how those four letters together could amuse him, help him relax, inspire him, express his every emotion. He thought this often, but did not think it right now, because he was running late and he had to get across town.

He decided not to fiddle with the seat or seat belt any longer, and he twisted the key and the car immediately coughed to life and he blipped the throttle a few times with his toe, and satisfied with the sounds generated by the engine he put the car in gear, looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and speedily entered the artery of asphalt.

'Fuck!' he yelled as his coffee spilled, fortunately only on the dashboard and not on his pants or shirt, which were really looking great today. He spent only three minutes selecting this shirt to meet her in this morning, he knew right as soon as he saw it he was going to party the pink gingham with a blue tie. He was especially pleased that his thin jeans were fitting as well as they were.

The green car was hurtling East now, in top gear, switching lanes left and right through the slower moving cars, which were few as it was early morning on a Saturday. The brakes in the green car were not good, not good at all, and he was traveling much too fast considering this fact - which he did - but he was running late and he did not want to make her wait.

As he sped towards the understood meeting spot, he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see himself, pick any wayward hairs or other unsavory items from his face, and he also elected at this time to adjust his tie, pulling it down, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to give the effect of having just thrown everything on, as if he didn't quite care to look perfectly put together this morning, a look he liked to cultivate often, a look he liked to call 'Contrived Casual'. Sometimes he would leave one shoe untied or button his shirt wrong to maintain this look. It worked for him.

He was a little loopy still from the night before, the drinking, and the lack of real sleep, but he found the meeting spot easily enough, they had met there before, actually, a little coffee place that made biscuits that she would pretend that she shouldn't eat but secretly loved. She was always talking about being on a diet and working out in the gym, and how she shouldn't eat this or that, and he thought she was crazy. Or fishing for compliments. Or just acting like a normal woman. She actually was a normal woman, he decided. She said nothing she meant and acted crazy and expected him to read her mind. This thought brought him reassurance. This thought brought him relief. This thought freed him from any real culpability regarding relationships. The man believed that nothing he did would make any difference as far as getting along with a woman was concerned. He could be nice, be mean, be aloof, be available, be responsible, irresponsible, tell the truth or lie, and the result would always be the same. Women would judge him and react to him however they felt like acting regardless of his behavior. Everything was contextual, and determined by the mood of the woman he may be involved with, completely independently of reason or fact.

He hoped she would be in a good mood this morning.


He parked the car, grabbed his notebook, wallet and jacket, and jogged across the street while putting the jacket on. As he walked up to the glass door of the restaurant he tucked in one side of his shirt only, taking Contrived Casual to the next level. He opened the door and went inside.

He saw her at the table where she sat last time, in the back, in a corner. He saw her there and she looked great. She rose and walked to meet him in the middle of the room and he noticed she was wearing another jumpsuit, this one of chocolate brown velour. Earlier, while lurking about on her Facebook page and admiring her many photographs, he noted, with pleasure, that she owned dozens of jumpsuits in a wide range of colors and textures. Sometimes she reminded him of a superhero. Maybe this was because she fought crime at the district attorney's office. Maybe it was because she could leg press fourteen times her own body weight. Whatever the reason, he thought she was great. Maybe she was crazy? He hoped so.

Their bodies came together in a hug in the exact center of the large open room, and for just a moment he felt like he was on a stage again, acting out a scene from some tired and weary drama. He felt all eyes in the room on them and their hug, their forms an exercise in opposite geometries; his massive,bright and loose while hers was tiny and tight and brown. They both enjoyed the brief hug in their own way, enjoying different aspects of the brief hug - He enjoyed touching her tiny strong form, enjoyed stroking the velour stretched across her back - and She enjoyed the briefness of the hug, the civility of it. She found satisfaction by behaving in a civilized manner, and abiding proper etiquette, and hugging your breakfast date would be expected by the population enjoying their coffee and biscuits surrounding them.

After the brief hug, and with the momentum generated by the separation of their bodies after the brief hug, they returned to the table she had selected in the corner.

'How are you doing?' they asked each other at the exact same time, and then sitting down he answered 'Great' while she answered 'Fine' , again at the exact same time.

Once seated, eye contact was made over the tiny table, smiles exchanged, and he touched his hair and wondered if it looked disheveled enough. HER hair looked disheveled enough, he noted with some jealousy. He pondered her disheveled hair a tiny bit longer and began to grow angry. Wasn't he worth the time it would have taken to properly coif her hair? Maybe she had stayed out too late last night with someone else to take the time to style her hair, was that what had happened? He was beginning to get angrier, and when this man got angry, he got quiet as well. Maybe she was just being funny again with her messed up hair? Maybe this was meant to be funny like the time with the wig? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions again? Maybe he shouldn't get quiet yet? He saw an opportunity to get out of his bad mood and entertain at the same time, and he took it: HE WOULD MAKE A JOKE.

He often did this when he was nervous, with mixed results. As he still could not tell if what type of mood she was in, it was a bit of a crapshoot, but he went for it anyway: