We're in this cafe in Adams Morgan, Jenny and I, listening to music. Watching people. Others are reading or typing into their laptops pensively. We're on a soft couch. I drink Guinness from a mug while Jenny sips Grand Marnier from a snifter. There is this samba sort of thing playing on the sound system. It's groovy and excruciatingly hip.

'I spend a good chunk of each day searching for inspiration that doesn't come. And if it does come, it happens at the most inopportune times. Like when I'm walking from Starbucks to my office, and I'll see this girl in high-heels cross Connecticut on L . . . and I think . . . ' And suddenly it occurs to me - I should . . . . what happened to that thought? That idea? It just trails off and I'm left wondering where I had been heading with that. I let it alone and wait to find out what reaction this creates.

Jenny just nods her head in agreement. I'm not completely sure what she's agreeing to, not entirely sure what she heard me say. I'm finding more and more that there is a disconnect between the words leaving my mouth and the thoughts that enter other people's heads. It's strange. We supposedly have this common language, this set of words, this vocabulary, with which we piece together sentences to form concepts and ideas. And yet, although you can hear one person's ideas quite clearly, you don't really absorb what they're saying. Don't really understand it.

'These people, do you think they understand?' I make a motion with my hand and glance around the cafe.

Jenny nods again. A distance in her stare tells me that she's now tuning me out. Possibly having her own thoughts, like 'Who is this guy?' Or 'I wasted a perfectly good thong on this date.'

'At home, the television, the radio. It tells me what to think. It's easy.'

'Hmmm.' says Jenny.

'Here. In this cafe. This crowd. Full of distraction. Things get jumbled and I'm no longer sure what it is I'm supposed to say.'

'Right.'

Behind me, there is a conversation involving sex. It interrupts my train of thought and I can't help but pause and listen. Can't bare not to. Then Jenny says something about using ice cubes to masturbate.

'What?' This has earned my attention.

'There's something really pleasurable about it. The coldness against my own heat. But you have to be sure to moisten the cube with your mouth first. If you don't do that, it could stick, and that's . . . well, that's painful.'

'Right.' I'm not sure how to respond to this. But in the affirmative seems appropriate.

Jenny uses the momentary silence between us to light a cigarette. She smokes Camels and they remind me of endless evenings in the smoking lounge at college. She takes a drag and then changes the subject.

What Jenny said next was this: 'But I do know what you're saying. Words are sometimes inadequate, aren't they?'

Unfortunately I missed this entire sentence. I was still thinking about Jenny masturbating with ice cubes.

'Hmmm' I said. '. . . oh, what?'

Jenny looks at me and smiles. Then she repeats what she had said.

'Exactly. Yes. Yes, they are. ' I didn't realize I had spoken this idea a while ago. In fact, I was quite sure I had not. Nevertheless, Jenny had heard it. I sit and wonder about this strange occurrence.

The music is now this techno number, still hip, but completely different in rhythm and syncopation than the samba thing. I inhale on my Guinness and Jenny holds her cigarette just in front of her mouth and moves her head to the music. We smile at one another and wait to be heard.

link to this | comments (1) | File: