How Do You Talk to a Girl?


"Why, nothing's wrong. We sit here chatting. We're sipping mocha (each of us) and talking about happy bittersweet things (we're just being that way) on a chilly winter afternoon. But Wendy (that's not her real name), with a look as open as the Connecticut hills pops into that burrow again, tossing a lithe mane over her freckled nude shoulder.


"How the fuck can I follow? What can a mighty mental midget do? Here she comes out, rising from all fours, a breast at every pore. Then with an infinitely quick look at me and every man in the Patisserie ... a naked prancer ....


"My sweet Jesus, I know she is. But look at that woman dressed in winter blacks sitting across from me. She's pretending she's a demure/furry lady/child in a Cambridge cafe. Listen to her. 'Another mocha?' I reach for my money. 'I'll buy,' she insists, sauntering over to the counter. See what I'm up against? So, reader, I put it to you. What can I do from the fringe?


"Porno books! – That's my revenge."



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