I Love You, Me Neither
He likes her.
But she, she likes men with a probability of jail time and the possibility of no parole. She is in search of such inamoratos not with the intention of her mind or the guidance of her heart, but through the raging power of an id untouched by the ego, super or otherwise.
Such a primordial crusade tends to devastate the overtures of a slight male raised on Hardy Boys and currently steeped in Syfy’s Alice. So he stands tinily before her, inapparent as a concert shirt at the bottom of a drawer, insignificant even though he is in possession of and in fact is right now wearing the best pair of kicks anyone in a 10-mile radius has ever owned. Clothes make the man, tis said, but only from the ankles up, twould seem. (Of course, Mark Twain made this contribution to sartorial ethos as part of a joke, so you remember that the next time some slimy three-button-open fakebake tries to show you up, capisce?)
He likes her, but she likes hot sauce on everything, including pastas with cream sauces and, in a dare gone awry, Dr. Pepper. You can imagine his bind, devoting considerable mental and emotional energy into possible overtures to her, but never the less being quite without a decent response to the topic of Cholula and soda. These quirks suggest a pellucid charm, but such positive perspectives are only afforded to the attractive or the successful. Others that are similarly unique are believed to be weird at best.
He craves in equal parts her hips and her attention, but thus far has mustered only a hello and a decrepit comment on the day. The day! Even the malign conversation topic of the weather has enough paths to create a connection of meaning. The day is a passive metaphor for existence, and bland at that. Hips are untouched. Attention remains an inert gas.
This failure to communicate is an abuse of good timing. In him we have a mensch of great talents and capacities, including sleight of hand, limericks, baking, and perfect renditions of Serge Gainsbourg songs despite knowing no French. He is above all a listener, a true auralphile with a sincerity of task not used for self-serving ends, making him one of the great potential finds of all time. However, even with this key piece of peripheral equipment, he is still running on a standard operating system, and so is naturally drawn to that who does not share such a drawing. Human nature and associated foibles are simply a programming error, it should seem to logical people.
She could use a listener, but she’s too distracted to know this. Distraction is a much easier than introspection, even with the horrible return on investment. She, as aforesaid, craves basic satisfactions, but not really from the troglodytic sort that she incidentally appeals to as much as those that are different from her parents. Again, her stunted sensibility for taking in the world outside of her skin should be a condition of extreme allure, yet in combination with her misinformed conscience, it makes a stew that is awful for sharing. He knows that being of sound mind, but who is driven in quiet moments by his mind?
This for her is tragic, or at least downtrodden, as it distances her from the substance and thrill she most wants. She loves magic, witty poems of a dirty slant, desserts, and new music, and yet she is 15 billion miles from the good-looking guy sitting immediately to her left that encapsulates the exact parts she could use: a less-brutal love.
She likes him too. Just not now.