During his visit, I told Tony about a Twitter conversation that I stumbled on. Several young women were complaining about men’s idea of a “first date”. Apparently, a cup of coffee was not good enough as they preferred alcohol. I intervened, but my voice got lost. Since you are better with people, I would like your thoughts. It didn’t take much to trigger him because Tony seems to have a Theory of Everything—nothing eludes his system. I decided to hold my tongue and allowed him to ramble.
Butterflies and Flowers
“At one time,” he began, “there were butterflies and flowers. A butterfly would alight on a flower and tickle her pistil with pollen, much to her delight. The system worked well for a while; all the butterflies got fed and all the flowers were pollinated.
“Then the flowers began gossiping with each other, as young pretty girls like to do. They would compare butterflies both by their looks and their prowess. They noticed that some flowers would attract the most handsome butterflies while others were stuck with the clumsy ones, who could barely find the pistil. Since they had no powers of locomotion, they were stuck with the system. Some of them conceived a long-term plan to alter the balance through evolution.”
“How did that happen?” I feigned intent interest.
“Just go with it. Since you are running low on Mojitos, I’ll cut to the chase. Let’s move from flowers and butterflies to people, or the ‘human state’ as you call it. The same fundamental pattern emerges in a novel way.”
“You mean like Category Theory?” I asked curiously.
“No wonder you have no friends, please don’t interrupt. The flowers are no longer powerless, since with the power of locomotion they are in a position to accept or reject a butterfly. But with so many choices, they often don’t or can’t discriminate properly.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that’s the point I was making. Does the butterfly take her out for a coffee or a drink?”
“There is one fact of life you should know. If she isn’t into you, then a drink won’t make a difference. On the other hand, if she is into you, then a coffee will suffice. Let’s play a game. You tell me a story and I’ll tell you a story, explaining where you went wrong.”
The Persian Princess
I took up his challenge and related the following events.
“I met a natural healer who followed the medical teachings of Avicenna. She even went to London to lookup cures in his more obscure works.”
He interrupted me, unable to conceal the smirk on his face. “So you planned a romantic evening discussing Medieval Metaphysics? Where did you plan to go?”
“I asked her to choose a place, and she suggested a new natural foods restaurant in town. It was so posh that I had to make a reservation a week ahead of time; that delayed our date.”
“That’s your first mistake, letting her choose the venue. Tell me about the second mistake.”
“It was a nice-looking place with a large herb garden by the front door.”
“Probably just for show,” he said cynically, “food for insects and lizards.”
“She was already at the table when I arrived, on the phone. I was annoyed, until she ended the call. We did the idle chit chat thing until the waiter brought the menu. She perused it with such diligence, I realized that she had never been there before.”
“Clearly she found the perfect sucker to take her!”
“She quizzed the waiter mercilessly, asking about the ingredients in each item. None of them passed muster with her, until the last one on the list. That is, until she was told it had honey in it, and, no, the chef can’t take the honey out.”
“I assumed she would hold bees in high regard.”
“I like bees, too, and for their honey which is a good food; so that’s not the issue. Reluctantly, she settled for the honey dish. I ordered the special with a lemonade.”
“So that’s when you discussed the unity of being and Persian poetry?”
Tony has picked up a lot of trivial knowledge in his lifetime, or else he pays more attention to me than he lets on.
“Not quite,” I replied. “It was more about her family, sausages, and how she wipes her dog’s ass after he did his deed. That’s all I recall.”
“Did it end happily ever after?” he asked.
“At the end she ordered a take-out for her teenage daughter. That was a bridge too far for me, so it ended and I was happy it did. Please tell me how I should have done it.”
The Sensual Artist
He began. “I stumbled across a cute artist, who had works on display in Palm Beach, Santa Fe, and Los Angeles. She was earthy, clever, funny, and creative. I made arrangements to meet her at the romantic upstairs bar of an Asian-themed restaurant in Delray Beach. Atlantic Avenue is an active place with curious tourists, restaurants, night life, and assorted flaneurs.
“I was sitting at the bar when she gently tapped me on the shoulder. We moved to a table with a view of the street life. I could sense she was pleased, as she ordered some cucumber drink with cucumber infused vodka. The girl knows what she wants.”
I responded, “I see the difference. You chose the place, and she was impressed by your choice. So go on.”
“I could sense things were going well,” he continued. “Only then did I invite her to dinner. We went downstairs and sat at an outdoor table. There was no hassle about the menu. The food didn’t matter, we were interested in each other.”
“I’ll ask you the same question. What happened next?”
“She lived within walking distance, so she told me her feet were a little sore. She let her sandals slip off her feet and casually placed her legs on my lap. I gently massaged her feet.”
“I assume you took that as a signal of some sort?” I asked ignorantly.
“Not really necessary, since the outcome was already settled upstairs in the bar. I took care of the check and escorted her back to her place.”
“So it did have a happy ending.”
“Yes,” he answered, “except for the parking ticket I got for not feeding the meter.”
Riding the Carousel
I did not doubt Tony’s version. I saw how he kept notebooks of names, like an insurance salesman. He planned seductions like those in an 18th century French romance. “To get back to the point,” I asked him, “what about Twitter.”
“Most young women,” he explained, “eventually figure out where they stand on the dating scale. So they learn to settle. They can be quite content that way. Others ride the carousel, happy to get the attention. Someday, however, the music stops and they have to get off. Maybe their friends married and had children, or their career is not satisfying, so they start looking for something more permanent. With decreasing choices, they take the “first available” who seems good enough. Years later they may regret it.”
He was on a roll and would not stop. “I’m not like you. I don’t believe in a twin soul who has been spiritually entangled with you since the beginning of time. I see it more like Hilbert’s Hotel that you write about. There is an endless supply of women.”
“You seem pretty close to Lorraine.”
“Could be,” he answered, “because she is quite special. She knows me in a way that I had never thought possible. I can’t put it into words, since it changes me inside. Most women don’t care about the man’s soul life. Just check out some dating profiles. They think they can pick a man just based on physical features.”
The Basket Girl
At this point, I pulled up a “profile” of a young woman that I had saved. I read it off to Tony:
“Age: any. Distance: any. Race: any. Height: any. Tony, it goes on like that.”
“That’s really unusual,” he conceded. “What is she like.”
I expanded her picture and handed my phone to him. She was deformed and wrapped up in blankets and appeared to by lying in some sort of basket. Yet she yearned for love like any other woman.
Tony appeared stunned when he saw it and fell into deep silence. He kept staring. Finally, he excused himself and walked into the house.
She must have a twin soul someplace.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is conincidental.