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Impressions from Lunch: Avoiding the Issue 1. The cutie (puckish collegiate semi-twink, rounded semi-Slavic facial features, lanky, dark spiky hair, thin hands) discussing business management leaned in a little too close to the middle-aged fat-man with the slightly mincing gait wearing a bad suit. Cutie does the knee-bounce thing as he talks quietly on a cell phone glowing cobalt while fatman is in the bathroom. Both at some point stared pointedly at me glancing at them. 2. The quasi-oaf at the far table with major cuteness potential, but missing by a hair with his slightly doltish too-self-conscious-ness. It's as though all the right elements somehow went wrong with too many keggers and too much study and not quite enough gym time. Tall and a little bulky, with floppy dark hair and seemingly pretty eyes, he is or was apparently a Yale Freshman Counselor (which is to say he's either a senior or already graduated) in Davenport College, and he reminded me a little of Matt Ware -- I wonder where he is. 3. Dude behind the counter (He's one of the cooks.): How often have I eaten here over the last nearly ten years, and I do not know his name. Recent pictures are posted of him on the wall on a fishing trip. He's all Mediterranean skin and mysterious eyes with a baby face which belies his older-than-I'd-think age (or does that construction go the other way?), and while I know he has not the perfect build and am sure he's hetero and married, I have always viewed him as a hot motherfucker. The pretty girl from last summer is back again this year. I don't know her name, either. (Actually, I can't remember the names of any of the people behind the counter, though some have been introduced.) She's rather tall, with long and curly hair, sort of like Fi's was, and she looks to be a strong woman -- broad shoulders and hips -- whom I could imagine playing softball. 4. The very tall fellow and she who must be His Girl, sat at the table across from mine. Somehow, I knew they'd be the only ones to sit that close. She seems more an attachment. He's tall, semi-blondish, with that solid, but not totally muscular build. The only thing that makes him remarkable to me is the way he walks; he has that baseball-jock swagger that I love. My hotty li'l stepbro has it, too. I shouldn't call him little; he's younger, but taller than I am and built like a gothic cathedral -- he ain't comin' down anytime soon. Yes, I want to shag my stepbrother. No, I do not see anything wrong with that; he's legal and not blood. And apparently, he knows his way around a woman, as I discovered last night on the phone with my father that the boy has a kid, which was born somewhere around Christmas. The mother is not the woman he was staying with at the house where his mother and my father live, but rather a well-off young lady whose parents seem not to want him to have anything to do with the parental duties. I think he's a cool kid, nonetheless. I think he is still a bit mystified by me. It would behoove him to stay that way. 5. And then, there's me, catching my reflection in the glass next to my table. The hair, mostly back to its natural ever-darkening brown (at least when there's gel in it), cropped quite short and spiky again, lengthening the forehead, rounding the angular features, reinforcing the concentrated scowl. Bobbing the head in time with whatever rock anthem is on the radio, I look more a bruiser now, though Marcus says it makes me look younger (thank you). Wait'll the hair's all blond again, boys. I swear there's mojo or moxy or something in that, me with the mop of ash-blond spikes. My arms hurt, but not where I'd expect. The shoulders I figure I had coming. I'm told it's where the biceps actually attach themselves. I didn't even lift that much. I think I need new clothes. r
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