I met someone a while ago, Bruce. He's very handsome. And very married. But wait...some men have friends.
Early last month, Bruce showed up to the patio where I perform open-mic comedy. See, Bruce started to do standup too.
His male friend sat across from me at a picnic table that evening.
Looks nice, defined cheek bones, muscular arms. "Hi, I'm Robyn," I extended my hand.
"I'm Justin,"* he smiled, conferring a handshake.
*Justin isn't really Bruce's friend's name. Justin's an alias for the love of my life's name in Woman on the Verge of Paradise. That man's real name was Bruce's friend's real name. I'd vowed to never date another with same name.
But the name similarity didn't cross my mind. Yikes. That's how a gal gets into trouble, right? Deny the red flags.
Justin and I chatted after the show until Jesus Christ--well, a comic who looks like the Western culture's image of Jesus-- interrupted. This hippie Jesus asked, "Robyn, I hate to bother you, but can I get a ride home?"
Shit, Jesus. Why me? Why now? "Car problems?"
"Nah, I'm just drunk."
I couldn't let drunken Jesus take the wheel. Damn. I turned to Justin,"I'm sorry. I'm performing on Saturday night, though. Eight o'clock."
"I'll see you then."
I left, thinking of Justin, as I dropped Jesus off in a dark alley. (The nice housing is only for the entitled richie riches around here.)
Stay hot. Stay cool.
Feel loved. You are.