The Day I Realized She Was Not For Me
Four hours in an amusement park naturally lends itself
to a certain level of exhaustion. -------------------- So
we spent our recuperative moments at an oyster bar.
The food I hate most, after olives, slidng into my gullet.
Then I broached the subject:
Asked her if she liked the works of Ian McEwan.
She said he was good as Gandalf, in Lord of the Rings.
But she does know her perfumes. Offset the oyster stench.
I then mentioned The Chronicles of Narnia.
Is C.S. Lewis too theologically-biased in his fiction?
She told me she preferred his Alice in Wonderland.
And then asked me what he had written most recently.
[It was at this moment that my goal changed to finding out
what the hell perfume she wore, so I could buy two jars
and spray it all over a certain homely girl I'd seen recently,
bent intently over Dostoevsky at the local library…]
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