Fonseca

I have a Fonseca Vintage sitting in my humidor. It’s the nicest smelling cigar I’ve ever had. But I also have a throat and chest cold. So I’m sitting on the porch with nothing between me and them. There’s nothing but the cool air in front of the porch and the brim of my green hat. It says Kiss Me I’m Irish and I stole it from some girl on St. Patrick’s day who was not, in fact, Irish.

I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes or so when a girl starts to walk by. She’s wearing a blue hoodie and tight jeans. She has long legs and a thin stomach and I am stunned by my own reaction.

Wow, I’d hold her hand in public
I would ask that girl how her day went
I’d like to buy her a flower

But I don’t stare because I am not in the mood to look like some creep sitting on his stoop. So I glance up at the black sky and lean into the railing. But then she says something. I don’t hear her so I say:

- I’m sorry?
- That cat! I like to talk to that cat.

I lean over and look back at my house. Up on the third floor, where SwimFox lives, there is a cat sitting in the window. He is skinny and black.

- Yeah he’s pretty neat, he sits there a lot, I say back
- Yup!
- There’s another one across the street. Sometimes they stare at each other.
- That’s kinda weird. Cya!
- Yeah, have a good one.

And she keeps walking. It suddenly occurs to me that for no reason this girl had started a conversation with me, and I failed dramatically to be interesting. I am the boy who watches his feet for cracks in the pavement like a Radiohead song. I look at her back as she crosses the street and think she’s the only good thing I’ve seen in days.