And so it begins…
Her shoes sounded like Clydesdales in a cave, echoing down that dimly lit corridor. As I watched him sit in stoic anticipation, my mind drifted, figuring that he probably hadn’t even seen a horse in twenty years. Not much need for livestock when you’re the one living in the stable. I didn’t know what type of woman to expect and I’m sure he didn’t either. At this point, the only clues we had were a pair of heels. Massive, clangorous heels. Heels that could have drowned out the drum of the Kentucky Derby. A pair of heels that howled down a hallway that stretched a mile long and a meter wide, augmenting even the very thought of sound. And a foreign sound it was, as he never owned stilettos, least not the type you walk on.
Weeks ago, when I had informed him that someone was interested in his file, he didn’t really know what to make of it. Gave me that same dumbfounded stare he did when he first set foot in Bilibid. Like he knew what was happening on a hypothetical level, but his brain rejected the notion. First stage of grief, so to speak. Said he found it curious that anyone would want to hear an old man ramble about something he fessed up to when he was in the business of making bad decisions. Said it’s not like what he would tell her would carry any weight. And he was probably right, but for different reasons. What he would say would only be what his subconscious cared to remember. Like a lifelong game of telephone finally coming to a head. Tell yourself a lie enough times and it eventually becomes your truth. That’s not anything new. When I had asked him about it, he said the only reason he agreed to meet with her was to break up the day’s monotony. If you’d ask me, I’d say it was in hopes of the visit becoming conjugal.
Whatever the reason, he agreed and she arrived. The stampede subsided when she rounded the corner, allowing both of us to see her for the first time. Her name was Joyce Navarro and it turns out, after that eye-grabbing entrance, she wasn’t much to look at. Skinny and a little insecure. A frame as straight as her long, black hair. Would have been prettier had she worn less makeup, but I guess no one ever told her that. I tried not to make judgements. I didn’t know the woman more than two conversations on the telephone and she seemed to be cordial enough. She might even be very lovely. After all, what kind of person gives up their Saturday to talk to Edmund Strauss?
She crossed her legs as she sat down across the glass, waiting a moment before picking up the phone. I don’t know what she expected but it sure as hell wasn’t Strauss. His wild hair and cantankerous beard were somewhat of a recent development. Those eyes of his would have been handsome had they not been so lifelessly dull. By the look on her face, it seemed as if Miss Navarro had spent the past week of her life researching a man only to find herself meeting his father instead. His melancholic, degenerative father. She finally took hold of the phone and spoke.
Dating for Mathematicians
There are 7.1 billion people in the world.
3.5 billion of whom are women.
350 million of whom are of a compatible dating age.
17.5 million of whom align ideologically.
4.4 million of whom speak English.
880 thousand of whom are single, looking to date.
44 thousand of whom are stunningly beautiful.
The L.A. No
"The L.A. No"
1) The act of refusal without any explicit rejection
2) Passively ignoring a request
"I’m looking forward to working with you", "Great, me too!", "……"
"How’s Tuesday?", "Let me get back to you", "Sure", "……."
"We’ll be in touch", "Will we?", "….."
"Could you send me another writing sample?", "Did you read the first?", "……"
"Email my assistant", "Okay!", "……."