One would think a blanket of snow especially one come so late as the last week of February, this 102 degree fever that’s left my body protesting for more rest more rest more rest and my mind for a couple or a handful of sedatives, and a mean case of the winter blues which I’ve managed to shake only twice in the last three weeks would keep a lady cooped up indoors hiding beneath the sheets sweating out the solitude, but I can’t loose myself of the feeling that if I get ready, wash up the three day bedtime mess, kick off the flannel and toss on some…flannel, it is a frigid day after all, and Plain comes over that all this boredom and ick will be about as meaningful as campaign promises and a fashionable snowball fight will ensue in the middle of 5th Avenue. And a fashionable snowball fight will ensue in the middle of 2nd Avenue, because nothing fashionable happens on 5th avenue anymore. That’s the hope anyhow. The couple instances of winter blueslessness come carefully to visit in the past weeks have been a direct result of Plain wrenching me from my self silly stupor and placing me in a seat at the opera, or a seat at the fried chicken place on 14th street that makes a lady wonder how something so good could possibly be bad for you, or two seats at a bakery on 9th avenue with three large slices of I can hardly remember what as the sugar from the lot has yet to wear off now two weeks past. I do know it was delicious, and I know it was Plain’s fault, the elevation of my mood, the sugar and Plain.
He’s not very tall, and I don’t think you’d spy him first out of a crowd because his dress is sometimes plain though never base falling between lumber jack and man of industry, except when he dresses, amazing when he does, as surely no one appreciates a 1940’s suit quite like him. His face is handsome and apparently unmarked by his years. I’ve heard many an envious cohort mumble that his surgeon must be found and tortured for doing such a good job or the painting in the attic must be destroyed. Silly gays and their envy, but it is to be envied, he seems not a day shy of his college days, of which I’m assuming much since my knowing him only began five years back. I met him and was caught up by his eyes. It’s really his eyes that make you stop, dead in your tracks, his eyes that make you strain out of bed, into the shower and down the stairs to hail a cab and rush to whatever he has in-store for you, his eyes that compel even the mildest man and woman to utter buffoonery.
It’s in his eyes that I’m about to be caught up today, because he sent me a not so subtle note that a pretty lady ought not stay in bed when the city is a powdered confection as it’s going to need a Technicolor sprinkle to make it worth tasting. I am his Technicolor sprinkle.
