Читать книгу Drowning in the Shallows - Dan Kaufman - Страница 8

6

I’m drinking a cocktail made with cognac, Cointreau and vanilla liquor that’s served in a dainty little cocktail glass with a maraschino cherry. Before me is a plate of mini burgers (I refuse to call them sliders), each one small enough to fit in a child’s palm, as well as my pocket-sized notepad and a pen.

I can’t help thinking I lost my manhood somewhere along the line.

This is a new small bar I’m reviewing for the paper. I fled here immediately after the cinema debacle and as I sip my lady cocktail I feel alone, sad and sorry for myself. This is not the glamorous life a bar reviewer should be leading.

This is not the life a man ought to be leading.

Of course, I’m not going to write the article up that way. Instead, as usual, I’ll portray myself as a gallant bachelor about town who flirts with femme fatales in the hope Tori will read it and get jealous. And even if she doesn’t read the review she’s bound to read the article I write for Susan on the movie – although what on earth can I say in that?

A barmaid comes up to me, eyeing my notepad suspiciously, and I order a martini to bestow some sophistication on me ­– or at least calm my nerves.

Lord knows they need it.

Although I ought to be figuring out what I’ll put in this review, or my piece on the movie, all I can think about is Jezebel’s cry of “you should join us!”

It taunts me, making me wonder what they make of the situation. Is it just a game to them, was I just a laughable episode that’s already past?

Are they trying to screw with me?

I was an idiot for even going out with Tori in the first place. I knew from the beginning she wasn’t quite right, that she was out of my league, but I let myself get sucked in despite all the warning signs. I saw how she cheated on her boyfriend with me for over a month (karma’s a bitch, huh?), I saw how rude she was to shop assistants … and waiters … and me …

I finish my lady drink angrily, sullenly popping the cherry in my mouth.

My martini arrives and I gulp it before realising I should be savouring it in order to write about it. I scribble “smooth and goes down easily, unlike rejection” in my notepad.

I think of that clichéd line: love blinds you.

And then, inevitably, it blindsides you.

I spin my bar coaster contemplatively. You know, love isn’t blind at all. On the contrary: it’s driven by sight, the most shallow of our senses. I went out with a girl for her looks and allowed myself to believe there was more to her. What did I think would happen? We primarily choose someone based on whether they’re physically acceptable, and only then start finding reasons to justify it. Love ought to be blind, but it isn’t.

It’s a sucker’s game.

The trick is to not fall for it in the first place. Instead you have to get in and get out, limit the damage on both sides. One minute is all you need – perhaps two if you’re into foreplay.

We’re trying to find meaning in a world filled with chaos and chemically-driven decisions: it doesn’t make sense.

Instead, we should be lowering our expectations of each other – and of ourselves.

We are not wayward spiritual beings in need of correction. We are animals, little more, with delusions of grandeur and purpose.

It’s time we started acting like it.