Delirious Delovely

He drank only Pimm’s to honour Henley, he rowed thrice in the finals, and when I asked him what he did,he replied “a man of leisure” so I was happily surprised the man mentioned this without an “our”.  would that even be how leisure was spelled? Being a scrappy wide eyed young thing in the valley of scrapers, park side townhouses, summer homes, and tennis clubs, I sat exoticly in quiet suburbia. As I tipped the bartender, I wondered what sort of mannerisms we had that differed. He asked me “What’s on your mind?”

“Oh nothing at all, just calculating”

“Your steps or your thoughts?”

“Ha youre a quick one, nothing on your part” I replied noting the cockiness that came when someone donned Americana like it was the summer of 1933. To him I was scrappy, its a funny little thing society, how your family, and your purpose define you. What was I even saying? It was pretentious as fuck..so I said it “Are we pretentious as fuck?”

   He laughed heartily as if I was the funniest fucking person alive “Well, Shit. I guess so”. I gave myself an invisible pat on the back. He slipped his number into my phone, although I longed for days of paper & pocket. I wouldn’t make the first move, if he was all crew championing, ivy growing, cape cod cavorting brook brothers believer that I knew he was, making the first move could be deadly.

      Well how would he contact me again? I’ll leave that to chance, and the scrappy girl could have an air of mystery, I was certainly enough to ruffle the feathers of a few pre-war relatives. What function would he bring me on to, if only to stir pot to boil? 

“The colour of your jacket is perfect” he mentioned awkwardly, they were always so very awkward in a strange charming way.  He sipped only Pimms Cup to honour Henley, where he rowed thrice. He slipped his phone into my hands to provide my scrappy pastoral digits. It wouldn’t be forever, but I knew I always wanted to try my hand at starring in a Ralph Lauren catalog. 

  As he left with his college friends to attend a speaker series at the ole club, I returned to my friends table, loud, light hearted, regular, and hilarious. I sank into the brown studded leather, and ran my hand along the mahogany panel, feeling strange, dreaming of swims in fine china with the Pimms sipping gent, the Brooks Brother believer, Praise the lord, Praise the lord, we were American, and the unreachable ideal made us all Brooks Brothers believers. I didn’t quite understand the point of the whole thing, but I returned to the attention of my haughty, bawdy, down to earth kin, and wondered how cold the water could be at Henley.

• 05/18/13