Tuesday March 29, 2005
	At the tire store, in the waiting room.
	The woman has tiny earphones (ear buds), pushed into her ears and she is writing something and when she is done writing something she removes the earphones and places her cell phone on the table.  After a pause I say: "Are you a secretary?" "If I were a secretary I'd be a personal assistant," she says.  "I'm not a personal assistant and I'd never be a secretary." Shit.  My mouth has gotten me into trouble again. She's wearing tight fitting jeans and her brown hair hangs down to her good female ass.  She has a Gilda Radner look and I like her lips and her freckled face and I'm imagining her without any clothes on (bent over one of the big truck tires) and that's when I say: "Just trying to make conversation." Sitting to my left is an elderly man talking about World War II (to an elderly woman holding a portable oxygen tank between her legs and she appears to be asleep) and about how the ship he was on (then) took three torpedo hits.  Directly in front of me is a teenage girl dancing solo to Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie and I don't want the song to end and when I look too hard or too long she turns down the volume and says: "Didn't you ever see a girl dance before, grandpa?" "Just admiring your iPod battery-operated stereo system," I say. After a couple of minutes Good Female Ass says: "I'm LeeAnn." "Norm," I say, then smiling.  "I was just getting my messages," she says.  "Didn't mean to be so short with you."   "I'm pretty sure you're not a secretary," I say. "I'm a vocalist," she says.  She is looking into her big American purse and while she is looking into her big American purse she is humming and while she is humming I am thinking:   A singer.  Jeez.  The two of us could be kissing right now and maybe she'd wrap that long hair around my head and I'd be safe and perhaps she'd sing to me and while she's singing to me I could gently explore her body and she could explore mine too and then when she's done singing and exploring I'd make love to her and she'd make love to me and while all the lovemaking is going down she could make female sounds of pleasure using all sorts of octaves I  wouldn't normally hear ('cause she's a vocalist). "Are you singing 'round here?" I say. She has stopped humming and is no longer looking down and into her purse.  "Here's the address to my web page," she says.  "What do you do, Norm?" "I'm not sure," I say.  The assistant manager comes into the waiting room and tells her that her car is ready. "Nice meeting you," she says. "Nice meeting you, LeeAnn." I say. PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT