"Maconna."
"No, it's Mo-co-na. With a double c." I was completely put off at having to correct his pronunciation. And with such filters working in my head all the time it was outright difficult to be pleased with anyone, at least for a long time. We had already spent many hours 'knowing-each-other'. Yet, I couldn't see how this was progressing, and where. Here he was, nice and cute and better than many, but not-me. And here I was, tolerating, tailoring.
It was an evening of classic thundershowers. We had started off on one such evening. Over coffee. In one of the those coffee chops which basically sell time and space, over good coffee. We hardly enjoyed the coffee. At least I didn't. I was instead yearning for a slow shot of whiskey. I didn't know what I wanted. Except from my coffee. It needed to be distinguished in smell, and black in taste. I wish I knew what I wanted of the man instead. Whether for him to be my companion or for him to be my daughter's Daddy.
He was a nice man. But not what I wanted, if I knew what I wanted.
He had once come inside the apartment. And what happened next was what had to happen. Average. I remember the next morning better. He strolled into the other room through the other bathroom door. I was in it already. It opened to a room with a corner devoted to an untouched basketball and a crayon coloured football and a softball and a tennis ball with two eyes, and a pingpong ball coloured blue. His gaze moved to the next corner of colours creeping onto the wall. He then walked towards the desk which was his knee-sized and pulled up a copy and opened it to pages of wrong spellings and sketches of fish that fly and ice cream that didn't melt.
I couldn't read what was going through his mind. He smiled and asked me, "You are a mother?"
I am, yes.
But did that disqualify my right to choose a man for myself? Not that he seemed eligible.
We had a nervous breakfast together and I was glad I refused to date him further in the name of coffee. No one messes with my coffee. Or my life.
It was an evening of classic thundershowers. We had started off on one such evening. Over coffee. In one of the those coffee chops which basically sell time and space, over good coffee. We hardly enjoyed the coffee. At least I didn't. I was instead yearning for a slow shot of whiskey. I didn't know what I wanted. Except from my coffee. It needed to be distinguished in smell, and black in taste. I wish I knew what I wanted of the man instead. Whether for him to be my companion or for him to be my daughter's Daddy.
He was a nice man. But not what I wanted, if I knew what I wanted.
He had once come inside the apartment. And what happened next was what had to happen. Average. I remember the next morning better. He strolled into the other room through the other bathroom door. I was in it already. It opened to a room with a corner devoted to an untouched basketball and a crayon coloured football and a softball and a tennis ball with two eyes, and a pingpong ball coloured blue. His gaze moved to the next corner of colours creeping onto the wall. He then walked towards the desk which was his knee-sized and pulled up a copy and opened it to pages of wrong spellings and sketches of fish that fly and ice cream that didn't melt.
I couldn't read what was going through his mind. He smiled and asked me, "You are a mother?"
I am, yes.
But did that disqualify my right to choose a man for myself? Not that he seemed eligible.
We had a nervous breakfast together and I was glad I refused to date him further in the name of coffee. No one messes with my coffee. Or my life.
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