He found me this time. I won't lie. I wanted to be found. "Soft-core porn opening" diagnosis established. Anything he doesn't like, he deems worthy of an insult wrapped up in a medical analysis. What a drag. My brother finds him exhausting. Says he's too cautious for my wild disposition. That his bite's his bark. I asked him how he found me, but he just answered with another question, "Is this your way of being cute?" I played with a preordered splinter of wood split off from the table. He hasn't even looked me in the eyes. How did he find me? I find California men to be overly educated to the point of emotional numbness. There's zero resonation with present relations. As to say they spent all their time in the bathroom breaking ties with narcissism and are too busy making up for it to communicate interconnected to outsiders. I would laugh to keep from weeping, but that might make it contagious. He's not interested. I put my number slyly in his door on the side of where we work a week later anyway. Maybe his ticker is stuck in rainy traffic on the 95 anxiously begging to see the ocean and not hear the word, "daddy" for a week. My imagination just went to creation space again.
