I’m sitting in a hotel lounge drinking bourbon straight, waiting for my date to get himself unstuck from traffic.
Everyone apologized when I left my lunch meeting (if eating a crappy and expensive lunch with clients counts as a meeting) that I had to drive to Calgary.
Yes. By all means feel badly for me. I put the top and my foot down, turned up Elle King and drove through the summer. I obviously deserve as much fucking sympathy as you can muster. I hope it’s none.
On the drive The Queen of California came on. I would send him selfies – a thing I never do – with the top down. He would quote lyrics from the queen of California. It was a stupid reflexive thing. An inside thing. No big thing, just a thing we did.
Which is why it lodged in a part of my heart. It comes back sometimes. When it’s summer and the top is down. It doesn’t hurt. Not even sting. It just makes me wonder . . .
I’m sitting in the lounge and the singer is doing his version of ‘I’m on fire’. Just like every other Canadian singer. It penetrates my thoughts.
I tell people I’m undateable. I’ve learned that. I am a turtle. I carry everything I need in me. I let in the steady, A few friends. I tried twice in the last year. Failed.
Those songs come on. I wonder.
Was there ever anything there?