sneak

so i'm sitting at the bar at honest john?'s tonight waiting. and waiting. and waiting. jim beam making pretty good friends with hot toddy. cozy and drowsy. radio says it's 2 degees out there -- breath all shallowness, purposeful. heat so blissfully high inside i could fall asleep with mah boots on and my head on my quietish meaty neighbor dude. still no sign of my cold chillin' chick classmates WHO INVITED ME to the joint. i watched nearly skyscraper tall pistons playing who? some white team. not so much skin white. uniform white. basketball players look good don't they? like superhero swimmers -- a little elongated with flexier muscles. it's where the shoulder meets the bicept. the "biceps brachii" according to one source. something about its sinew and cut, how it dives and resurfaces. and the froggy muscle that twitches above at the shoulder, hinting, momentum sneaking out like a tease from hiddenness...then disappearing like it never was....only, you know...the tiny surprise....

let's backup a sec.

hilary. phD student, bit of an offbeat bombshell, voice like cotton candy. between class and no-show she says: "i have a very personal question and you don't have to answer."

sex ... drugs ... what? i have no idea ...

"tell me."

"how much do you weigh...? that's my goal...."

i look at her. what is she talking about?

"man, i have no idea. and what do you mean 'goal...'"

i heard about this one brainiac, almost invincible lady who could do, really, nearly everything humanly possible

(Zora, the self-made superhero | from the time she was five, she had recurring dreams in which she was a 6'5" warrior queen who could fly and shoot lightning from her hands | she made a list of all the skills she would need to master if she wanted to actually become the superhero she dreamed of being | sample items: martial arts, evasive driving and bomb diffusion | she actually checked off most things on the list...and then she had a run-in with the CIA)

--but Zora...she was terrified of interpersonal interaction....

maybe hilary says this to all the girls -- you know, ice breaker. she's more brainy and analytical than touch-feely-emotional. sometimes it's hard, the beginning. people come to expect certain things, i guess. or, she just wants to know how much i weigh.

"i'm all boob," i say.

"HEY! ME TOO!" (sarah.) "what size are you?"

i tell.

"MEEEEE TOOOOO!" sarah lights up.

no way. she's a teeny tiny thing.

"where?" i say.

she stands up straight and presses her sweater flat.

"and so you are!" impressive. i had no idea.

"SO AM I!" hilary chimes.

"i usually try to hide it." sarah again.

i remember those demure days. as they were reaching their conlusion, a buddy told me as we were walking to grab a beer and a bite, "stace, i had no idea." my reply: "that was the intention, dave." it's like unless you knew, you didn't need to know. yaknow?

"sharon...?" she's across the room, leaning against a deskchair waiting for us to wind down and clear out.

"oh, i'm in the Cs." she shakes her head, matter-of-fact.

"ah," i nod.

silence all around.

show over, we packed up and headed out. i tossed out my styrofoam tea cup, the last vestige of our presence in that room.

just the hint...

till next week.