I feel full of pith. Like Pithy Longstocking, or Gladys Knight with a lisp.
“Pith it out!” (To be whooped in titillated Tourettes.)
This week, I’m doing my usual gig plus extra duties for the Big Cheese (the boss of my new boss). Or Blue Cheese, as the case may be. For, if we’re grading on the curd, she is indeed pungent, veiny and somewhat of an acquired taste. But! The result of this sojourn into the echelons of the executive set is that, for however brief a bout of flirtatious felicity, I now sit opposite a certain specimen of suave swain (aka the only guy to befall my fancy at work).
That’s right. He’s crotchety yet kind. Cynical yet slapstick. And blows Gay Prince clean out of his softly-scented water. But don’t call your yenta just yet.
Allow me to preface that with this: he’s married.
To him, I am but a waggish wartime distraction in a sea of suits. But that cannot damper my delight! For only once in a whimsical-weighty-while do I come upon a person with whom I own an immediate shorthand. Suddenly, the effort of providing Wuccan context melts away and in its place is a beauteous Bert ‘n’ Ernie kinda kindred.
Pastels of possibility float above my head like the amore borealis
… in shades of electric blue, haiku and breakthrough …
Sure. Experience has taught me to look upon such good fortune as gay giraffes might look wistfully upon the Ark … (that boat has sailed my friends), but. Sometimes it’s enough to find someone on your level, who meets your eyes with understanding before you even speak; who simply sees your subtleties and musicalities. Even if you can’t play happy hippo, bump bits or dance the cheesey ‘changa. Even if you can’t keep him as a friend because you’ve already lost in that there lottery of love (and men don’t see the point of platonic).
If nothing else, it proves the impossible merely improbable.
“Fuck. Seriously? It’s like you’re photoshopped!”