tyrst

I stroll in late and survey the room. Over by the wall stands a young woman who wants to be seen not wanting to talk to anyone. Hovering about the cheese poofs are three jovial gents in dockers and oxfords, clearly with nothing more to learn about the world than what they can teach it. Catching a familiar eye here and there makes the exchange of nods easy enough, but a presence is about, foreboding and pungent, like egg salad flatulence in the shower or that unsettling vibe from a dysfunctional couple who have yet to acknowledge it. As I reach for a beverage she slithers into view. Grand but not tall, adorned in a midnight blue sari she wastes no time, we guard the refreshments as her eyes dance to a choreographed monologue, already a victim of her own hypnotic prowess. At any moment I expect her to place a wheat thin on her shoulder to get things started. She's the kind who removes your guitar strings as you sleep, leaving her phone number as collateral. It is enough to make you say piss it all and join a monastery.