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06-24-2005, 02:16 PM
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Paying Attention
If you pay attention to things, there are times when life actually feels good. You can count up those seconds like the stray coins that you unearth between couch cushions; when you add them all together, you may be able to enjoy a few beers at your favorite bar. This is what happened Thursday night, before I met Tamara.
It was stormy outside, which prompted me to pound on the apartment door like the DEA searching for a drug kingpin. When Tamara finally answered my intoxicated knocks, her initial look was that of toxic judgment.
“What do you want?” she asked, grimacing as if I was radioactive.
“Where’s Cheryl? You know, your roommate?” My words were slurred. I wasn’t drunk, but I was definitely impaired. “We’re supposed to cram for an important test.”
Tamara could easily sniff out my obvious lie. I looked like a desperate man searching for late night sympathy sex. I probably appeared abrasive wearing baggy jeans, a ripped baseball cap, and a cocky smirk.
Tamara stated that her roommate was downtown guzzling apple martinis at some local nightclub. She politely introduced herself and invited me indoors, but it was obvious that she wouldn’t have allowed me to take refuge if it wasn’t for the torrential rain. She was only being kind because of her friendly Midwestern upbringing. I sauntered inside as if the tattoos on my arms were original Picassos, yet Tamara remained unimpressed. To her, I was just another repulsive loser waiting to mount her uncleanly, sluttish roommate, a woman who had successfully orchestrated an endless parade of dirty dishes and one-night stands in a single college semester.
To be honest, I was also repelled by Tamara. I had heard about her prude ways from several other students on campus. Their assessment was that she was an uptight, wholesome girl who never wore makeup and was always on time for classes. Upon meeting her, I saw no evidence to dispute this rumored character sketch. I hypothesized that Tamara’s parents had to either be dysfunctional or religious fundamentalists. I glanced over at a clock on the wall and twitched impatiently for her hedonistic roommate to arrive; lusty thoughts of Cheryl’s pierced tongue seemed rather enticing.
The storm lurked outside like a menacing stalker, while the wind served as its nasty accomplice. Sinking into a corner of the couch, I killed time listening to raindrops rhythmically clatter against the windowpane. After ten minutes had passed, I began viewing Tamara with alcohol-induced clarity. Even though she invited me inside with contempt, she was sprucing up the apartment, showing hospitality to a guest she disliked. While bending over a desk, her denim skirt rose up slightly, bringing greater definition to her personally trained thighs. She looked like an anatomy textbook model. I awkwardly slid one hand over my crotch to avoid the embarrassment of an obvious erection.
Thunder roared loudly, announcing the sky’s violent release of additional precipitation. Once her cleaning was complete, Tamara and I sat in the living room together, waiting out the inclement weather. After awhile, we couldn’t carry the silence between us anymore; it simply weighed too much. So she volunteered to talk out of obligation, blabbing about microeconomics or some other topic that I found equally as dull. But as uninteresting as her soliloquy was, I was genuinely impressed by her intellect. Therefore, I wore a contrived expression of profound respect on my face, even though I was still actively tuning most of her words out. It was an unusual look for me to pull off, since I am a slacker whose customary expression tends towards equal parts impatience and boredom.
We were fully engaged in colorless conversation when, without warning, lightening struck a transformer across the street, causing every light on the east side of campus to instantly turn black. The explosion was deafening and intrusive. The initial flash shined with enough light to lure a newborn off its nipple. Out of fear, Tamara involuntarily leapt onto my lap, and any discussion of capitalism and financial theory was abruptly terminated like the damaged electric current.
The darkness was so thick that I couldn’t see my watch. Therefore, I can’t remember how much time passed before we kissed. My vision was blinded by the synthetic darkness of the blackout, so all my memories were derived from other senses. I wallowed in the aromatic trough of her designer perfume. I tingled from the softhearted scratching of fingernails on my back. I listened to our subtle moans and the sensitive sounds of affection. Later we nodded off, creating an intriguing mess of flesh entwined on a burnt orange sofa.
A few hours later, the power surged back on. Tamara sleepwalked over to the light switch and grumpily flicked it downwards. Rather than kick me out of the apartment, which I fully expected, she nestled beside me on the couch. We returned to the comfort of the darkness and each other’s body.
The following afternoon I came by again, this time bright-eyed, sober, and looking for Tamara. Cheryl, her libido-driven roommate, answered the door and seemed genuinely hurt when I ignored her sexual overtures. That evening Tamara gave me another impromptu lecture on economics, and this time I tried my best to pay attention.
Paying Attention
If you pay attention to things, there are times when life actually feels good. You can count up those seconds like the stray coins that you unearth between couch cushions; when you add them all together, you may be able to enjoy a few beers at your favorite bar. This is what happened Thursday night, before I met Tamara.
It was stormy outside, which prompted me to pound on the apartment door like the DEA searching for a drug kingpin. When Tamara finally answered my intoxicated knocks, her initial look was that of toxic judgment.
“What do you want?” she asked, grimacing as if I was radioactive.
“Where’s Cheryl? You know, your roommate?” My words were slurred. I wasn’t drunk, but I was definitely impaired. “We’re supposed to cram for an important test.”
Tamara could easily sniff out my obvious lie. I looked like a desperate man searching for late night sympathy sex. I probably appeared abrasive wearing baggy jeans, a ripped baseball cap, and a cocky smirk.
Tamara stated that her roommate was downtown guzzling apple martinis at some local nightclub. She politely introduced herself and invited me indoors, but it was obvious that she wouldn’t have allowed me to take refuge if it wasn’t for the torrential rain. She was only being kind because of her friendly Midwestern upbringing. I sauntered inside as if the tattoos on my arms were original Picassos, yet Tamara remained unimpressed. To her, I was just another repulsive loser waiting to mount her uncleanly, sluttish roommate, a woman who had successfully orchestrated an endless parade of dirty dishes and one-night stands in a single college semester.
To be honest, I was also repelled by Tamara. I had heard about her prude ways from several other students on campus. Their assessment was that she was an uptight, wholesome girl who never wore makeup and was always on time for classes. Upon meeting her, I saw no evidence to dispute this rumored character sketch. I hypothesized that Tamara’s parents had to either be dysfunctional or religious fundamentalists. I glanced over at a clock on the wall and twitched impatiently for her hedonistic roommate to arrive; lusty thoughts of Cheryl’s pierced tongue seemed rather enticing.
The storm lurked outside like a menacing stalker, while the wind served as its nasty accomplice. Sinking into a corner of the couch, I killed time listening to raindrops rhythmically clatter against the windowpane. After ten minutes had passed, I began viewing Tamara with alcohol-induced clarity. Even though she invited me inside with contempt, she was sprucing up the apartment, showing hospitality to a guest she disliked. While bending over a desk, her denim skirt rose up slightly, bringing greater definition to her personally trained thighs. She looked like an anatomy textbook model. I awkwardly slid one hand over my crotch to avoid the embarrassment of an obvious erection.
Thunder roared loudly, announcing the sky’s violent release of additional precipitation. Once her cleaning was complete, Tamara and I sat in the living room together, waiting out the inclement weather. After awhile, we couldn’t carry the silence between us anymore; it simply weighed too much. So she volunteered to talk out of obligation, blabbing about microeconomics or some other topic that I found equally as dull. But as uninteresting as her soliloquy was, I was genuinely impressed by her intellect. Therefore, I wore a contrived expression of profound respect on my face, even though I was still actively tuning most of her words out. It was an unusual look for me to pull off, since I am a slacker whose customary expression tends towards equal parts impatience and boredom.
We were fully engaged in colorless conversation when, without warning, lightening struck a transformer across the street, causing every light on the east side of campus to instantly turn black. The explosion was deafening and intrusive. The initial flash shined with enough light to lure a newborn off its nipple. Out of fear, Tamara involuntarily leapt onto my lap, and any discussion of capitalism and financial theory was abruptly terminated like the damaged electric current.
The darkness was so thick that I couldn’t see my watch. Therefore, I can’t remember how much time passed before we kissed. My vision was blinded by the synthetic darkness of the blackout, so all my memories were derived from other senses. I wallowed in the aromatic trough of her designer perfume. I tingled from the softhearted scratching of fingernails on my back. I listened to our subtle moans and the sensitive sounds of affection. Later we nodded off, creating an intriguing mess of flesh entwined on a burnt orange sofa.
A few hours later, the power surged back on. Tamara sleepwalked over to the light switch and grumpily flicked it downwards. Rather than kick me out of the apartment, which I fully expected, she nestled beside me on the couch. We returned to the comfort of the darkness and each other’s body.
The following afternoon I came by again, this time bright-eyed, sober, and looking for Tamara. Cheryl, her libido-driven roommate, answered the door and seemed genuinely hurt when I ignored her sexual overtures. That evening Tamara gave me another impromptu lecture on economics, and this time I tried my best to pay attention.