Sunday, December 27, 2009

The third race

So we are standing by the rail waiting for the race to start and I'm talking to one of the women in our crowd. I am making her laugh with some bullshit or other.

Earlier, I had noticed that her husband was wearing a cross, which was large enough to be showy, but plain enough to be understated. Both of them stuck to softdrinks, with straws in their cans, which I found odd. Maybe it's just that I would feel a bit silly asking for a straw for my softdrink. Maybe it's just that they hadn't ordered them from the bar (where they would have been served in a plastic glass).

So Jesus frowns on drinking but doesn't mind gambling? Who knows? Drinking is not a virtue, after all. It's something we do because we've always done it, and we rarely ask ourselves whether we actually enjoy being drunk.

This woman is an odd, delicate sort. Her teeth look sharp. She doesn't seem the sort to bite you though.

So she is smiling and laughing and that's nice, but the husband comes over and says, come on or come away, or something of that sort. The words don't make enough impression for me to remember them precisely, but the tone does. It's the way a dad talks to a child who is doing something they shouldn't, or is holding up the family in some way. It's not respectful.

I wonder why he would do that. I'm not going to seduce his wife or anything, so what is his problem? It's as though there is some undercurrent that I'm not aware of. Maybe I seem dangerous. I find that hard to believe but I'm not on the outside looking in at me, and who knows how much danger I might seem to represent to a timid lad?

If he is a timid lad. He wasn't friendly enough for me to find out.


There are quite a few goodlooking women at the races, but I don't talk to any. I feel like I am there but I'm outside looking in. Nearly everyone else seems to be having a better time than I am. It's not that I wasn't having fun, although as I often do, I felt disconnected from the person who was there doing whatever I was doing. He seems like someone I really care about what happens to him, but have no ability to change the course of his day.

Sometimes I feel like he is just a robot, his arms and legs moving to some tune I can't quite hear, but vibrates through my world and makes me dance a graceless jig. That sounds more fun than it is.


At 1:43 pm, Anonymous Anonymous said...

You never know who or what touched the top of the can. The straws are protection from those can germs, donchya know? Just ask my mom.


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