Complexity is the Majestic - Book 2

You're Like Me

A lot has past.

Am I different? The same? The usual?

We left off (Casually Compromised) confused and destined for the Chair of Misery that is until the club removed it. Now months later, things are same but different.

Parker Evans, a self made man serves multiple masters. In the office he serves clients and young startups looking to build the next big idea, at home he's a husband to Ally his wife, to the stress of starting up a business and carrying the lives of his team and their futures, and last but not least, he serves his inner crisis- self inflicted in the pursuit of a woman he hardly knows, who's essence is framed in the lust filled fantasy of a strip club and who is the measure of the gap between his sanity and total disfunction. His quest for intimacy.

This story is largely written from Parker's perspective. In some aspects like a journal, an observation of others or in scenes taken from memories. Judge or enjoy- have a good time.

I'd like to think the final frontier is space. Scifi movies have prepped us for that notion. Part of me says the final frontier is something we've had for ages, technology and society intermixed has done stellar job in stripping it away- we known more than we think we do. Today's age of likes, tweets, social shares, profiles and more. We're two things, the perception and the real, we prefer the mixture of the two, but I hunger for the separation. The unknown between us is what keeps us.. us. Don't tell anyone but we're all eager to get it back. Not knowing. The frontier of not knowing exactly how each other are, thats the final frontier really. A majestic of the unknown.

Even now its under siege as technology continues to bring us together willing or not, true or not, it doesn't matter. Our social circles, our every interaction monetized, tracked, squeezed for every possible data delight. You will be known by the computer, one way or another. But hold tight to your majestic.

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Back to the girls, the women that roam my mind. You know who i'm talking about.

How does she sleep? On her side, straight and narrow, a stomach sleeper? I'm an edge sleeper myself, preferring the edge of the bed, like any minute I could fall off, descending to the perils below. The candy wrappers, the bowl from the other day, or worse yet, smashing one of my cats staring up at me intently curious why the bowl is empty at 4am.

Refresh and reset, I try to sleep but I recall the conversation hours before.

A memory opens...

She doesn't need a man she tells me, I believe her.

Solitude. I know that feeling.

Maybe I don't need a woman.. actually scratch that, I really need a gal. Maybe I just need the chase? I like the counterpart though. I like the random noises, the high pitched hello's, the subtle touches, that feeling that someone's thinking about me, that feeling I'm thinking about them, holding them in my memory, projecting every ounce of confidence toward them.

Yet there's something obvious in the mix, again and again, the remnants of time and history, pushing our programming forward. When she says she doesn't need a man, I believe her. She doesn't and she doesn't need me, she's just curiously connected to me.

I should be comforted by that. Welcomed by that notion, the attachment disabled. Nothing to see here.

"You're like me..." she says in a locked stare. She's beautiful. Haunting really. Her eyes draw me in as I catch the red glow of the light in the dark hall and mirror behind her. Next to us another man, another stripper, and down and down the line goes- everyone cued up for fantasy. The club the usual feel all present and accounted for. A private dance turned introspection my drug of choice.