JULE
Ten little Indians, and now there were eight. Jule went down right after Emile. That he was tall, straight, active, busy meant little as he was also a liar. 68? Sweet? Understanding? Considerate? Loves Conversation? None of these. Somewhere in his two hour long-winded, one-sided conversation with himself he admitted to being eighty-one!
Oh, he looked good, remarkably good, unbelievably good, but a man 81 is not the man with whom I had arranged a date. Had I been aware, I would not be sitting here right now, in a lovely restaurant, a view of the lake in front of me, tuxedoed waiters graciously tending to our simple needs. Those things paled in the sunlight. Had I been aware, I wouldn't now be bored listening to his past escapades, family problems, health conditions, stock market investments.
My hopes of making a friend, at best a relationship, crashed quickly,
dashed against the rocks of Jule's total absorption in himself. Our getting-to-know-you calls were promising , offering a bright light, someone who really sounded like the right man, one with whom I would strike a spark to warm our shared lonely world. His efforts at rubbing two sticks together managed only to rub me the wrong way, extinguishing any small flicker that might have grown.
dashed against the rocks of Jule's total absorption in himself. Our getting-to-know-you calls were promising , offering a bright light, someone who really sounded like the right man, one with whom I would strike a spark to warm our shared lonely world. His efforts at rubbing two sticks together managed only to rub me the wrong way, extinguishing any small flicker that might have grown.
May Jule live many more years but for me he is dead, buried and I will await the next Indian, peace pipe in had, tomahawk at the ready.
No comments:
Post a Comment