Sweet Parisian Dreams

I AWOKE TWO DAYS AGO

With A Scratch On My Forehead … 

Like A Playful Kitten Had Mauled Me With Its Machete-like Claws Retracted In White Furry Mittens.  Plump Pink Pads Tapping The Smooth Fleshy Patch Above My Left Eyebrow.  A Little Below The Still Have-It (Don’t Be Hating) Nearly Recession-Proof Hairline.

“A Speckle Of Dried Blood – Scabrous, Crimson Crumb Forgivably Mistaken For A Rogue Pepperoncino Flake – Blotted A Spot Of Skin Where It Once Lived Joyfully In Peace, Undisturbed For Decades.”

… Mysterious?  No.  Kittens Cannot Be Trusted.  As I’ve Learned, They Are Not Spoonable Pets Until They’re At Least 6 Months Old.  If Tiger King Has Taught Us Anything, Folks.  Beware The Ginger Ones, Especially.  Diavoli Rossi.  Red Devils.

 

THE EVENING’S FEATURED DREAM

Didn’t Help Matters … Just Like The Goofy One I Had Months Back …

Where I Was Running Through The Shenadoah Valley of Virginia With Maverick (Tom Cruise).

“Tom Boy Galloping Like A Majestic White Steed In Front.  Both Of Us Shirtless And Barefoot.  Wearing Identical Black Skinny Jeans Cuffed To The Calf.”

This Dream Felt Real.  Real As The Sweat Glistening … Down The Goody Trail.

 

WE LUNCHED ON A WHITE LINEN COVERED TABLE

Freddie Krueger.  Edward Scissorhands.  Jack The Ripper.  And, Me.

Café de Flore.  Paris.  The Year Is 1991.

“Karl Lagerfeld Was To Join Us.  He Sent His Regards Along With Jack.  And, A Single Black Glove With A Note In Fine Cursive Penmanship.”

I Was So Desperately Hoping To Meet Herr Lagerfeld.  After The Shenanigans At Fashion Week The Previous Spring.  The Whatnot’s With Versace, Liza And Andy.  Warhol, But Really, You’d Be Forgiven If You Thought It Was Kaufman Or Dice Clay.  Does It Matter For The Authenticity Of This Story That Warhol And Kaufman Passed Away Years Prior?

 

NO, NOT A BIT

The Four Of Us … Giggling Like School Girls, Causing A Small Ruckus That Culled Exasperated Stares From Snooty Diners.

The Impossibly Snootier Maître d’Hôtel Stopped By Our Table Twice To Insist We Calm-The-Fuck-Down

“Though It Unfolded In A Nasal Guttural Bomb … An Accent I’d Ignorantly Surmised As Being ‘Le Parler Lyonnais’, Which Explained Nothing And Only Inflammed His Indignance As I Later Discovered He Was Alsatian.”

When I Flipped Him The Note Given To Us By Herr Lagerfeld, Mon Ami Left Without A Word.  He Returned With A Bottle Of Dom Perignon Rosé Millésimé Pleasing Edward To No End.

 

CHATTIER BUNCH

Than You Might Imagine.  Freddie’s Such A Ham … We Got On Fabulously.

“Okay, Trust Tree Here: His Jokes Are A Bit Off-Putting, And Honestly, I Thought He Was Pressing Too Hard To Be Liked.  Sad, Really.”

And, Jack.  Quite The Chivalrous Charmer.  A True Lady’s Man (… Too Soon?).

Edward Was In One Of His Moods.  He Was On A IV Drip Of Absinthe.  A Bit Boozy By The Time His Crêpe Suzette Arrived.  He Barely Ate A Thing.

 

ANYWAY

Jack Busts Out A Monte Cristo.  I’m Like,

“Hey, You Can’t Smoke In Here!” 

Freddie Shushes Me, Says,

“Chill, Kuch.  It’s Paris.  I’m Not Even Real.  This Is Only A Dream.  Or, Is It?”

 

I CAN’T TELL

If Freddie’s Being Serious Or Not, So I Change The Subject.  I Say,

“Let’s Play A Game: If You Had To Spend A Life Sentence In Prison, Who Would You Want To Spend It With Locked Down In A 5 By 9 Cell.  Alive.  Dead.  Or Fictional.”

We All Screamed Out In Unison:

“Karl.”

 

Image by Pere Serrat from Pixabay

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