The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-eight Sounds Light Chrome Green

We tried again a week later. This time at her place. Downtown. Where they keep all the young people. 'Place' trivializes it, though. This was no hangout for the modestly comfortable. A huge penthouse downtown with a doorman who checks your bona fides then escorts you to an elevator that makes your ears pop all the way into the stratosphere. Standing there alone I was torn. I really wanted this to work. Not just for me, for both of us. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about her all week. Not that I had anything better to do. But this didn't seem like any place for mere mortals and I could feel myself withering inside while I ascended. And I was dreading what would happen if the mud started flying again. To that end I had fortified myself with some sildenafil in case Mr. Stiffy decided to turn spineless on me. And there was already one slight bulge in my pocket. My ear plugs. Brought them, too, though I was a unsure about their ultimate deployment.

Her place was spectacular. Floor to ceiling windows catching everything the night couldn't hide. Furnishings that make Ikea whimper and crawl off to fall apart in the dark. Artwork that mocked the judgment of hoi polloi. Great if you're used to that kind of thing but a bit hard for the uninitiated to take in at a go. And she sat there in the middle of it all in perfect command. Even more intimidating. But she mastered that, too. She had me relax on a sofa to the right of a marble fireplace, poured me a drink, sat close and slowly unleashed those waves on me again. Pulled me in like a fish on a line. We drank and talked, then drank and talked some more. That familiar warmth started crawling all over us. It was remarkable how that seemed to happen between us. Randomly thrown together mutual intruders from different worlds who somehow instantly became buddies who could share anything.

Might have been a little more careful with the booze. Problem is it really accelerates synaesthesia's effects. The waves were coming faster and faster, becoming unbearably magnetic. Her blues and pinks starting to stick to me like fridge magnets. The next time she stood up I stood with her, face to face, a breath apart. The buddy system broke down and I was on her like a dirty shirt. She accepted her fate with eager grace.

Now I've thought about this obsessively and I just don't see what I could have done differently. It was damned if you do, damned if you don't. If I hadn't slipped off to the bathroom to put in the plugs I'm sure there would have been a precise repetition of my previous epic deflation. The effects of synaesthesia are always thoroughly consistent. Not to mention the ethyl amplification. And I was falling for this woman. I really, really wanted it to work. I had to do something.

And it seemed to be going well for quite awhile. Candles were burning low. Plugs were snuggly inconspicuous. I wasn't quite lip reading, per se, more lip estimating. But the vocabulary of passion is pretty limited anyway so I managed to stumble through. Until I fell into the trap. She whispered something to me while my head was turned slightly. Just caught enough of it to know it was one of those urgent things said in full heat that call for some kind of immediate response. Nothing complicated. Usually affirmative. But ignoring it and just plowing on wouldn't do. So I stopped. I looked down at her and said 'what?' Bad enough. Worse, because of the plugs I'd lost all sense of volume and modulation in my own voice. So I didn't just say 'what?' I shouted it. Like she was in the next room.

After that is was all downhill. Precipitous. 90 degree grade. Ardent lover to fumbling oaf. Passionate embrace to being told to "get off me." Not hard to lip estimate that one. Subsequent events were so terrible that they can't even be recalled continuously. Reduced instead to a series of horrid little Polaroids I can still barely stand to look at directly. Lights going back up. Plugs being spotted. Plugs being removed. Violent colors of offense, anger and hurt bursting in. The interrogation ratcheting up. Nothing I can do. Nothing I can say. My secret truth slowly squeezing the life out of me. I'm beyond explanation. Way beyond. Then, before you know it, I'm back on the elevator getting my pops back.

The last thing I'd expected was to have to drive home that same night. Probably shouldn't have but I was dazed. Not thinking straight. Then halfway home I ran into a roadside check. When I rolled down the window the officer peering in turned out to be a rather attractive young woman in uniform. I didn't really notice. I was too preoccupied. Too upset. But Mr Stiffy did. He was still high on drugs and unbridled by the underwear I'd left back in the penthouse. Still don't know how we ever got away with that one.