“I’m six kinds of trouble,” she said. I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m in the middle of a bad breakup,” she continued. Internally I guffawed. I laughed until I wept and then slept it off, all within a single beat of the dance music.
“Just give me your fucking number so I can never call you!” I shouted. Enough with the fucking around. Let’s get down to it! The world, with its tap dancing incestuous band lineups who are ex girlfriends of bass players of bands on whose singers I have crushes, just will not grow past my own udder.
I dressed as a cow, and only got one phone number tonight. I had to ask her name like three times. What a mess. All the women downstairs had names starting with “A” like Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine and Jack. By the time I got upstairs I was all kinds of on fire. I had left that one girl for Johnny B, and goddamnit if I was gonna just walk away from Miss Yvonne’s friend.
“Should I call so you have my number?” I asked. She stammered out some long answer about never answering the phone when she didn’t know who it was, and I couldn’t see how she was going to get out of it, so I just interrupted with a let down for her:
“Look, I’m never going to get up the nerve to call you anyway, so let me just have this feather in my cap like you’re excited to have me call, whether or not you really are.”
Okay, that’s not what I said, but considering the number of numbers in my phone and my inability to call anyone ever, well, you add those numbers together and see if you come up with anything other than one, which is indeed the loneliest number. I’m money. I get the digits.