I met my current girlfriend, Kerstin, in a drive-thru pharmacy where she is the Chief Pharmacist. While she looked weary, I was drawn to her intense blue eyes, the curve of her lips, her natural dark brown hair and overt beauty. I also felt attracted to the tattoo lettering on her forehead: Shake Well Before Use. I tried to cheer her up with a few witticisms. It seemed to work. She listened, smiled, and said, 'You're crazy'. Then she laughed, 'You're crazy.' I began to worry that this might be the extent of her vocabulary. Thankfully, I was mistaken.She has a habit of pinching my cheek but always brings it back. She enjoys it when I quietly plead,'Who's stolen my soft, well-shaved cheek?' 'What shall I do without it?' Infantile, I know, but if it makes Kerstin laugh, I'm happy to oblige. Kerstin loves dancing; I love shooting inanimate objects. Perhaps, that's why she doesn't hear every word I say to her; too busy dodging bullets.
The inevitable road to decay in our relationship has yet to show its bored, weary face. I give it another three months, or, until my ammunition runs out. Kerstin can be sensitive, and ask stupid questions: 'Am I beautiful?' 'Is my sister prettier than me?' 'Does a woman's age matter?' 'What does "ironic sadness" mean?' She's still cute, so I take whatever she throws my way, including cutlery and furniture.
*
Today a passer-by told me my hair was on fire. Unfortunately, I left it on the train. I immediately ran down the rail track like an escaped convict. I had to retrieve the wig at all cost as it belongs to my neighbour, Herry Guttenchest, who likes his hair uncombed, not half-cooked. He had kindly lent me his wig to wear in a 'police lineup.' It appears the victim of the crime, Monsieur Flambé, had the sharp creases stolen from his trousers while he was travelling to the top of the Eiffel Tower.As I raced past a station platform I was chastised by waiting passengers for never being on time. I remember thinking 'I should write to the newspapers regarding this matter' when I suddenly fell from a railway bridge into a river. Some men on a barge fished me out. The water was icy and black. I asked if they'd seen a burnt wig. My inquiry was met with silence and strange looks. Perhaps the men thought I had tried to drown myself.
I had to think fast. I'd bath and tell Herry that his wig had been stolen. To make my story viable I'd say the assailant had one-leg, and had been riding a unicycle sideways on an escalator in a downtown department store. Herry should buy that; he bought the wig, after all. I started to laugh. The men on the barge gazed at me in bewilderment. As I reentered the bleak river I felt light-headed. The rapture I was experiencing appeared to be shared by the swans drifting close by.
*
Reflections: One tends to make a great number of mistakes in life. For example, measuring a lover's arm with a 'spring tape measure' during lovemaking; following a spouse disguised as a cigar, a dress maker's dummy, or three policemen, to establish if your partner is up to no good, or, at least, shoulder height; mimicking the cry of the Great Black-backed Gull during a long silence at a senior management meeting; mistaking rich green grass swaying in the breeze for the ocean and decide to go scuba diving. All foolish wondrous things. But hazardous, nonetheless.
