afternoon & evening

afternoon and evening

 

Do you ever get the urge, after you’ve spent the afternoon and evening with one of your favorite girlfriends, and the wine has become a little overwhelming, but you still have energy to spare, it’s last call and the server seems a little impatient, the caged dove in the window is asleep on her perch, the part collie part golden retriever named Puppy is lying by the bar, the Great Dane has left the restaurant and you have started humming ‘He’s a Tramp’ from the Disney soundtrack of one of your favorite childhood films

 

You don’t even like dogs but respect their position in the world and somehow, against all odds, those two dogs in the restaurant didn’t bother you at all

 

It has been a perfect evening and you cannot even begin to imagine how it could end

 

It must never end

 

It needs to be frozen in time

 

But you can’t stop the passage of time so your inner psyche forces you into a leap of logic and you suddenly have the urge to go somewhere with your girlfriend, rip off each other’s clothes, and make mad passionate love

 

But you’re gay.

 

So instead you walk along the avenue, arm in arm, gazing into the windows of expensive private galleries, wishing you had the time to stay at home all day and paint like Norval Morrisseau.

 

But you’re white.

 

You continue walking and hear the muted sounds of a jazz singer coming from one of your favorite posh restaurants with a live singer.

 

And you want to sing jazz standards for the rest of your life.

 

But you’re tone deaf.

 

So you keep walking and there’s one guy with one cup asking strangers for money and you overhear this huge muscular man with a real babe on his arm say something rude to the door person at the posh restaurant about people like that standing outside the door.

 

And you want to challenge him to a duel.

 

But you’re weak and skinny and drunk.

 

So you empty your Roots change purse into the cup and your friend throws a wad of twenties into the mix and you keep walking.

 

And it’s balmy.

 

And you’re drunk, tone deaf, gay, weak, skinny, and white.

 

And then the guy with the cup comes up behind you in a weepy emotionally charged manner and says he wants to buy your ‘girlfriend’ a flower for being so generous.

 

And you tell him thank you but that isn’t necessary – not meaning to be dismissive – only wanting to spare him the trouble of finding a flower seller.

 

His leg is bruised and sore and he says he is suffering from a terminal illness and his doctor comes to his house everyday - you have already suggested he see a doctor, assuming he is homeless due to your own domiciled privilege

 

And suddenly, out of nowhere, you can make love to anyone, drink anyone under the table, paint like anyone, challenge anyone to a duel, cry a river, sing like Michael Bublé, Ella Fitzgerald, Molly Johnson, and Tony Bennett all mixed into one.

 

But instead you kiss your girlfriend goodnight and try not to laugh too hard at yourself as your tears fade into the background of a perfect evening preceded by a perfect afternoon.