The Lexicographer's Rules

Got her all worked up today. Thinks I’m making fun of her, don’t want her around. Ummm, yeah. How do you say that? “Please, beat it. You’re driving me up the frigging wall with your shouting and your yelping laugh and your endless supply of crass breast-baring skin-tight clothing and the way you speak incessant Hebrew to your friends but then bitch when I read the newspaper at lunch.” You’d think we were married. God forbid. Wants to cast me in the role of abusive boyfriend she’s used to. Another think. Just teasing her like anybody. Otherwise, she’d be crying. Not treating her badly, just not like a girlfriend. Big difference. She’s possessive.

October 1994, Park Avenue, a block south of Grand Central. One of Manhattan’s mirrored glass buildings, looked great in the architectural sketches but completely bland, anonymous, vague in the cityscape. Lots of those. Sitting by the window on the twenty-first floor, 11 in the morning, thinking about lunch, a network problem, the tight necktie. A hand grips the window sill on the other side of the glass, outside, high up. Tight, bony, sinewy, thin, chalky hand. Fingerless gloves. A long-haired man in purplish shorts and a white tank top climbs up past the window to the next floor, hand and foot, looking skyward, not in. Who believed me? But there were chalky handprints on the outside sill for proof. Cops roped the street to protect passers-by from the possibility of a falling Frenchman. A caption from the New York Daily News: “A police officer (top) waits as French mountain climber Alain Robert scales the side of 101 Park Ave. in Manhattan yesterday. Robert, 42, was arrested on the roof of the 48-story building and held on a variety of charges.” He’s still active. Sears Tower in August, rescued on a building in Paris in September, heat exhaustion.

Received from an unknown AOL address: “you are so sexy” Thanks. I feel sexy.

Something incredibly appealing about her overbite. Maybe something childish, kicks in my hard wiring, makes me concerned, fatherly, motherly, protective. She’s got a hold of my idle brain cycles. English-Israeli, if there’s such a thing. Yes, Israeli woman number two. Coincidence, but who knows? Four languages. World-travelled. Soft, doughy, smooth, skin, thick wrists. Shiny, straight hair, colored, sure, but nice. Curvy, unconscious of it, but classy, stylish, though sedate, conservative. Smells like. Smells, well, like tomato blossoms. Yes. And gold eyes. Last pair of eyes like that, lovely Julia, who met, married and moved to Israel with a man in two weeks. These eyes, though, sun perch, harvest moon, goldenrod, bear honey. We talk. Her mouth moves, words issue, I hear, I feel, I respond. Later, I remember nothing. Says nothing about herself, or am I lost, deaf, blind? Vedi, good man, cuts out early. Leaves us two, talking, ignoring the task at hand, explaining the world to each other.

Called last night, depressed, bawling. Me conked out like a woodpile, incomprehensible. Sleeping. No, talk to me. What? I am awake. No. Who is this? Okay. Tomorrow. Thanks. Bye. She’s fine. Broke up with her boyfriend. Likes me. Very predictable about it. Don’t mind. Smart girl. Loud, loud. Always just a few pitches louder than necessary. Talk about sex? Always loud. Words for organs bouncing off walls, people looking, Goldie oblivious. Raucous laugh, too much, kind of embarrassing. Always. She’s fond of the low-cut top. Me too. But all the time? (Source Link)