I have incredible taste in women. It’s a rigid taste though, restricted and discriminating. So much so that I’ve hardly ever felt Cupid’s arrow. That's a good thing, too since I’m particularly susceptible to pleasurable sensations, no matter how bad they sting.
I spent so many years hiding from myself that it’s quite a shock to turn the corner and come face-to-face with the man in the mirror. I experienced a guilty recognition, like: What are you doing here? I thought I’d shaken you loose years ago. I barely recognize you, old man. Do you have a few minutes to catch up? Let me buy you a beer. Ah, I knew that would get you. Some things never change.
Hey, could we get a couple of cold ones down here?
So, tell me about the old crowd. You keep in touch with any of them? I lost track a long time ago. Wait - don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m sure I’d only be disappointed. Don’t tell them about me either, speaking of disappointments. But what about you? Last time I saw you, you were still with what’s-her-name - the pretty blond with the chip on her shoulder. Yeah, that’s the one. Married? To a doctor? Good for her. She seemed like a woman it would cost a lot to keep happy.
You heard about me and Claire? Yeah, we split up a while ago. She’s got this new guy - accountant or some shit. He’s a stiff but he treats her better than I did, and she seems happy. You know how women are. They land on their feet. They’re smarter than us.
Shit, I gotta take this. Stay. Finish your beer. I’ll be right back.