An Encounter in Business Correspondence

She seals her letters with a shiny red heart peeled from a sheet of shiny red hearts. Maybe there are blue hearts also. No, there are never blue hearts. You can't buy those. My name and address float in bubble letters. In autumn, leaves fall across the back of the envelope and in winter, snowflakes, all similar but none the same.

In discussing Law, she spells perjury as if a cat lied under oath. Perhaps it denied walking on the kitchen counter or spitting up a hairball in the back of the closet or sitting on your face while you sleep. There is no honesty in those yellow eyes.

I imagine she smiles so simply. Girlish. I wonder how she survives in this mean city, in what corners of life her personality flourishes.
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Saturday night blogging

Some people have advised me against blogging on a Saturday night because they think it makes it seem like I've got nothing better to do, so others will think that I'm ugly and that I smell bad. Yet I ignore their advice because I don't care if you think that I'm ugly and that I smell bad. And my advisors, by and large, are ugly and smell bad. Yeah, that's a big "fuck you" to you guys. You know who you are. There are no mirrors in your house, and you can smell yourselves.

I may pretend not to, but I do care about my perceived visual appeal and scent, yet you can neither see nor smell me on this blog. There's no way for you to judge. If there were a way, I'd let you smell me first. I'm more confident in my scent than in my looks -- most days. I smell like one part old-timey shaving cream, one part talc, and with luck, no parts onion or cumin.

"Oh," you say, "but I find cumin oh so sexy."

"No you don't," I say. "Liar."
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