I asked the woman what she needed to know before fooling around with me. Being willing to talk to her, however briefly, being more than enough for her to continue kissing me and rubbing me and scratching me. Pretty sexy. Pretty tempting. And I think, shallow as it is, I might have done it, if she had been an impressively attractive woman, just to add some spice, some confusion to people's impressions of me. Love as narcissism. Still.
She asked me how old I was. I told her 33. She asked me what I did for a living. I told her waiting tables. She asked me was I nice. I thought about it and told her I tried to treat people decently.
Other than the realization that it is imminently possible to have sex with random people on any given night, which in itself is pretty cool, it really doesn't matter what I do. For a living. But what I am. Waiting tables for a living is supremely confident. Taking that risk every night. Putting myself on stage as performer, mother, butler, psychologist and acrobat. This is the portable career. This is the partial nirvanha of selfhood. I could wash dishes and still be happy. Dig holes. It doesn't matter.
1:47:56 AM 
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