Last night I met this guy on a sidewalk who said several intentionally irritating things before he offered to show me his tattoo, repeating you know you want it, say you want it.
I stared at him and said No. I don’t.
The other people in the group exclaimed over the design etched on his arm. By this time he had already said half a dozen more offensive things and while I found his palpable need for attention amusing I was not overly impressed with the performance.
So I said Wanna see mine? and pulled my shirt down.
He read the inscription and said Okay, I officially hate you.
I said thank you and Jeffrey, at least, was getting a little nervous about what might happen next when the new fellow touched my face.
In fact, he reached behind my glasses and pressed on the scar bisecting my eyelid. He said I’ll just smooth this down so you can see the world like you did when young.
People who know me – and all sane strangers – are perfectly aware that I can and will break their fingers for lesser transgressions.
I decided to be charitable, given darkness and drunkenness, presuming that he was just cocky and vain and pitiful.
So I grabbed a handful of the belly artfully hidden by his stylish coat, and twisted.
He jumped away, emitting shocked squeaky sounds.
I motioned to my friends, blew a kiss at the annoying man, and departed.
At the end of the block I found Ade hiding in a doorway and snatched him up to venture forth to the Crescent, where I convinced the crew to perform especially for me with the guarantee If you sing Convoy I will love you forever!
