The Sweat of the Brow (xxviii)

 The week comes and goes, and I hear nothing.

I wonder if she’ll tap me. I half wonder if I just dreamed it all. I try to force down the nervousness. That never works.

I don’t go back to the Cove. I spend most of my time catching up with the world, reading about new trends and topics, trying to prepare myself when I don’t know what I’m preparing for.

It’s hard for me. Not because I have trouble understanding the new. That was never my problem. It’s hard because it’s been decades, decade upon decade, since I cared. Since I cared about the way people dressed or tried to dress, since I cared about the old things people dusted off or even truly believed were new.

I don’t care if hem lines are up or down. I don’t care if they’re trending up in Portland Oregon and down in Portland Maine. I don’t care if they’re up among people who listen to opera and down with new wave Satanists and camel fetishists or whatever microcommunities, geographic or ideological or professional or perverted, exist in the world.

I try to care. I try not to think like an old man.

But that’s what I am.


~ by davekov on 2 December 2011.

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