Paranoid Lunatic on a Date

The following is an attempt at a (very) short story; maybe you'll see some value in it. I certainly can't.

Paranoid Lunatic on a Date

What struck me about the way Evette walked was her hips, her sweaty hips, copper-coloured like a penny. They glowed when she wore her red cashmere sweater, even though the fabric didn’t cover her hips at all. She cackled her private school laugh and I was charmed instantly.

I asked her out for a cup of coffee and dessert; I recommended a good Norwegian café—I knew a thing or two about reindeers; how their milk, when cooled made some damn fine milkshakes. Evette nodded eagerly in assent, with a swift side to side motion of the head, making an ‘X’ with her fingers and then running away, screaming. Inside my heart leapt high, as though thousands of jumping beans were exploding in the heels of my fake-Italian leather shoes (Except my leather shoes had to be in my heart, and that’s why it was leaping so high.).

Walking home to fry up an egg for dinner, I imagined all that would transpire that night; the way Evette would giggle when I told her I was the one who invented the Mexican piñata; how she would blush in delight when I did my ten-minute impression of ‘the lower intestine digesting a four cheese lasagna.’ I couldn’t wait to show her my collection of seagull feathers—my most prized possession (I had stolen them from a friend who worked at the beach). There was a certain je ne sais quoi about this date, and it made my nose bleed in anticipation.

But, as I was mopping up the blood I realized I had forgotten something: what about Rory? My cousin Rory had made plans to visit me, you see, even though he didn’t know where I lived, and I had never told him I was even in the city.

Rory, damn, I had to find way to ditch him. I started to worry--was there something about this night that was not meant to be? Could it be that Evette only agreed to this date so she could humiliate me? Could it have been true that my shrink was really a black bear who wanted me to take down my pants, to inspect me for honey, grubs or salmon? (She always insisted I not wash before seeing her, maybe so she could lick me clean. I made a mental note to fire her). As for Rory, if he came over to Evette’s house, I would have to act like he didn’t exist, just like Dr. van Leeuwen said he didn’t.

I supposed Evette to be a typical young French woman, and being a typical young French woman, I supposed she would want to make fun of Algerians—for a full seven minutes—before wanting to go out. So when I arrived at her door—seven minutes early, natch—she

(and I can’t seem to write anything past here—any suggestions on what happens next? )

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