Unrelated

"Seventeen?"

"Seventeen."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Why can you be so sure? Doesn't look like it."

"Trust me."

"How, though?"

Garth sighed.

"You want another beer?"

"How, though? Tell me."

"You wouldn't understand."

"You're full of shit. Yes."

"Think what you want. I could care less."

"If you could care less, that means you do care."

"What?"

"What I think."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you *could* care less, that means you do care."

"You're an idiot."

"No I'm not. You are. You're the one that doesn't know the difference between could care less and couldn't care less. I wanted lemon with my beer."

"It's a Bud Light."

"So? I want lemon."

"Lemon goes with Corona, you idiot."

"So write me a ticket. And get me a fucking lemon."

"You are getting to be a pain the ass."

She didn't look seventeen; Tony was right about that. She looked twenty-seven, and haggard at that.

"Whatever. I don't want nothing to do with that."

"It ain't marriage."

"I don't care."

*****

Certain things, they're important to certain people. Take hygiene. Some folks, they be scrubbing all day long. All night long. All weekend long, and all life long. Others, well they can go camping out in the woods for two weeks or more and never even miss the running water or soap. People, they're just like that. All different. All shapes and sizes.

The dancing started when I got the giant mirror. Had I needed to shower and scrub my teeth and put on clean clothes before I could stomach myself starting the day, I might never have started. I know I wouldn't have. But I was going on two days in the same pajama pants, way more than I want to admit on the socks and t-shirt, and the giant mirror arrived after a second cup of coffee on a legitimately crisp Fall morning. A Saturday. And my dog had already gone out to do her considerable business, so nothing was in my way from wandering along and following the falling leaves of my own immediate associations.

And what came after the delivery guys left was another cup of coffee. Walking back to my desk from the kitchen, I stopped in front of the new giant mirror to check it out. It is large, by the way. Seven feet high, five wide. I set my cup down and really checked out the view, the room, all things in perspective to the new mirror. It sits on an elevated area of the 1967 condo entranceway, an area covered with a genuine linoleum producted called 'Marmoleum,' in a color combo called 'Coffee.' Well, what happened was that my mystery-days-old socks started to twist a little with my feet in them. And that how I realized that I was swaying my hips, twisting my legs, and starting to sort of glide around the Marmoleum a little. And liking how it looked in the mirror. The background to my grooving self was sunny winter woods from the reflected doorwall, and in contrast to my unkempt self, the beat somehow found itself picking up speed. It looked good. I looked good. And the dancing, on it went.

Spins that landed me down onto the carpet of the sunken living room area.

I don't know how to describe what interests me. It tends to be things like torture, and that can't be good to say, now can it? I don't even want anyone to read this, because it is lame, but it is too late, isn't it? What I need now is a superhero.

******

Blue eyes. Round, shiny, protected by thick black lashes, long and fluttery. Kind eyes that find their way inside the first try. Set atop strong, manly features, chiseled to almost artistic perfection. A nose long and straight and sharp. A chin strong and sensual, and meaning business. A face unmarred by the distraction of hair along its borders; smooth, endless face that startles and woos.