I thought yesterday, Wednesday, would be a whirlwind. I’d get to Jamaica via Flushing, where I would find the Q44. I’ve wanted to ride and record on video that entire trip. It would likely not be as glorious as I imagine but it has been an eventful journey for as much as I’ve taken it.
I made it to Jamaica alright, but nothing went as planned. The signature encounter was at a place called Healthy Harry’s, in a little food court. I wanted a fish sandwich and finally found a place with something like that to offer.
The dude said it would take 10 minutes. I said fine. I was starvated, by the way, to a point of dizziness.
10 minutes passed. 20 minutes passed. 9 or 10 customers who arrived after me were served promptly, but they wanted simpler fare. Just a few scoops of rice and some beans. The sandwiches, it turned out, were quite complicated to assemble. From what I overheard the place had no bread, so the only other dude working there was sent out to get some.
He took his time getting that bread.
In the end I finally was awarded the sandwich, but at a premium. The posted price of $7 was increased to $10, for no conceivable reason except that they may have written themselves a tip on top of the tax. I actually checked my credit card statement to see if they didn’t slip themselves a fat tip. This happened to me once at a bar and explains why I never pay by credit card at bars. I should have used that same discretion at Healthy Harry’s.
The sandwich was, as I expected for having taken so long to assemble, room temperature and just kind of blah like something that’s been sitting in place too long.
I wandered Jamaica Avenue a lot farther than I realized, to a point where enough time had passed that I didn’t want to do the Q44. I’d end up in the Bronx at probably 2:30pm, and I wanted to be home earlier that day.
I finally found an F train, which luckily had to go express, skipping almost everything, it seemed. The connection to the R local was perfect, and soon enough I was back at home, waiting for an appearance of the masturbator doppelganger who resembles an ex-gf so much that it is spooky. When she put the lipstick on I said exactly what I said to the ex when she put lipstick on: You don’t need that. In my mind I thought “That shit looks really bad on you” but my words were more diplomatic.
My plan to connect with the woman at the bar was wrenched asunder by the shocking, time-to-leave appearance of angry ex-gf. I cannot remember the last time I saw or even heard anything about her. I think it’s been since 2016 that it ended. I am fine with most of my exes but not her. It’s not that I have animosities it’s that she is not fine with me and probably never will be. I fear the white hot anger from her will one day overflow, or explode. She is stronger than me and capable of physical assault. She also owns guns. Her father does, that is. I don’t know what access she has to them but it’s something to keep in mind should we ever end up at the same bar together and my presence makes her angry to a point of taking the type of action she threatened me with on that very last night of our relationship.
Her voice sounded the same. Throaty and confident, probably dispensing meaningless and inaccurate information. I don’t know that she was dispensing meaningless and inaccurate information in that moment. I wasn’t there long enough to glean the meaning of the conversation. But that was the sound of her voice doing that in the past. Too much confidence for one so inexperienced in life. She is 38 now and, as far as I know, still lives with her parents, paying no or very little rent.
I make that speculation after admitting I’ve heard nothing from or about her for a long time. Three of four years, I think? Who knows… Who cares… It sucks that a guy like me can’t just walk into a bar. I could obviously have done that, minded my business, sat out of sight… but that would have been hard since she and her friend were the only two people in that somewhat large space. I had nowhere to hide, and felt damn lucky I turned and left before she could have seen me enter. The bartender must have been asking a lot of questions about that incident, questions I’ll be happy to answer when the coast is clear.
I didn’t leave over any animosities I have toward her. I just don’t want to butt in on her life without me, which I hope is happier than it was with me in it.
This near-encounter came just days after the sour reminder of our early experiences, those days when good things seemed possible. We both looked at each other like we could be The Answer, but that came long before either of us ever asked The Question. I can’t even tell you what The Question should have been.
A long and calm dream overnight featuring the beautiful ex. She came to New York and this time did not ignore me. She made time to spend with me, and we had a long session of soulful, searching sex in a library conference room. She knew this was not allowed to happen but it did. Some dreams feel so real they might as well be.
Then the intrusions of a repeat dream I’ve had, in which jumbo jet planes suddenly point their noses downward and smash directly into the earth. Flame and foment everywhere, this peaceful dream disrupted, destructed.
Too many exes when I have my sights set on a new possibility. Last night was supposed to be a next step in that deliberation but it was not to be.
I took the full helping of meds today. 2mg Lorazapam, 60mg of the BP med, and I don’t remember the name or dosage of the other one but it’s the beta blocker. All these pills work. I had cut the Lorazapam to 1-1/2 mg but it seems to not want to let me get through the day without some level of duress. That’s why I’m back to 2mg, but I’ll revisit lower dosages again.
No Morning Mas today. The real-life encounter with the ex and the seeming reality of the sex dream with the other ex made it all seem unnecessary.I don’t know why that is, really. I slept well, though, with respectable bonage through the night to show for it. Wasted bonage.
