Oh yeah, the Park Slope crowd is more my speed than Tish James’ assemblage could ever have been. For me, attending a de Blasio party is like a springy walk down the gentrified street, augmented with speeches, banners and drinks. Even my goo-coated sense of insufficiency is the same as in my day-to-day realm, though this time informed by my uncomfortable encounter with the man himself. Yes, the de Blasio woman is my kind of woman, the kind I would settle down with if she’d let me. The only impediment is the goo. But that goo comes from the mind, so a quick trip to the bar is apt to dam its flow.
Too late. I turn, sober au goo.
“It’s nice to see you.” (Can’t remember her name.)
“I’m surprised. You didn’t look too happy last time.”
“Yeah, I did consider deeming you dead to me, but then I remembered I may have been unctuous or over-attentive or even undesirable the time before and maybe your seemingly inexplicable hostility was due to that. Your attitude being perhaps my fault, I let you live, albeit in a rarely visited recess of my mind. You missed out, though. If you hadn’t cut me off that night, you might have learned…”
“Enough with the words already.”
“We are not made for each other.”
“Clearly. But how have you been? What have you been doing?”
“You don’t know? That explains your continued hostility. I’d think you would…”
“Stop putting so many words to every thought.”
“You might be less judgmental and a bit more obsequious if you knew I was now a (wait for it) congressman.