Post 700-level Mark Musings

Okay, by this time, if WyW5 were a car, it'd be a sporty little Civic. Nothing flashy, but enough of a decent ride that you could pick up a first date and not have her roll her eyes getting in.

You'd sit there in your sporty little blog, taking the turns tight due to your finesse with a stick shift transmission - just enough to have her body lean into yours in that safe-yet-dangerous kinda way. Close enough to catch a passing hit from her perfume - probably Paris or Opium.

You pull your blog into a perfect spot right outside the place you've chosen for dinner. As you walk in, you catch the eye of the owner back near the kitchen.

"Petey, how are you - good to see you!", you announce jovially.

Petey takes you over to a nice booth by the wine cellar and disappears after tastefully fussing over your date and her clothes.

"He's a nice guy," you say offhandedly, "it's his dream, you know, this blog.", extending your hands out to include the room. The waiter drops by with a tray of aperitifs on the house, and you settle in for the first round of small talk.

She's in retail part-time, and going to school for art and psychology. She works in the fragrance area at a local department store, so you refine your earlier estimation.

"What's that you're wearing?" you ask as the wine begins to mellow your mood.
"It's called Blogger," she says, "I sell it at work. Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's nice," you say, cringing at your nervous remark. "I mean, it suits you."

She smiles at this.

You both order, and then you ask her about her studies. She talks about her senior project, something about the interface between the subconcious mind and the need to recreate the world through artistic self-expression. She tells you this quickly, as if you'd be bored by it. You keep pace with her, however, and soon her enthusiasm for the work has her talking about everything. A good vintage bottle of red blog finds its way to the table and you both realize you're getting comfortably tipsy.

"Dessert?" you ask, mischievously twirling a spoon like a baton. She agrees, and Petey brings over homemade ice cream and coffee. The place starts to empty out, and you realize it's late.

The night flies by your sporty little blog like firefly traces in the dark and before you know it you're back at her place. She thanks you for a wonderful time, and kisses you lightly on the cheek. "Call me", she says, slipping a fragrance sample with her phone number on it into your pocket.

You walk away from her front door whistling and pulling your coat tight against the wind. "Good God Almighty," you say to yourself, "she's am-az-ing. I may be in blog!"