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Enter Poem or Quote (Required) "Smooth Big Cat" He was one of those guys you just knew would be a dud. "Be nice", she said to herself. She met him on the upswing from the abyss of a dismally closed final chapter. He seemed to be unsure of himself, this did not bode well. When one had been to Hell and back, kissed some bad-ass demons, packed them up and shipped them back to where they belonged, all the while multi-tasking, walking the social tightrope of being perceived as a combination of bad traits starting with Mata Hari, Lizzie Borden and the good sister gone ‘bad’ sister gone wrong in all the right ways, the one who spoke to mirrors, you know that one - well, 'unsure' of himself, just did not bode well with her. One wanted to be in, if not collaboration, at least conversation with a man who was most definitely 'sure of oneself'. However, this ‘unsure of himself’ was the lesser on one’s list of priorities, after making the next rent payment. The story of how they met, ensues. It did not portend well for the man's confidence. Of course he said this on first making her acquaintance, "I feel over-dressed", he uttered, ambivalently shooting his eyes at her over the rim of his designer spectacles, removing his thick gloves, pursing his lips and taking a sip of his drink. He had bailed her up against a cold wall in the corner of a tight room full of gyrating bodies slick with sweat, which was probably due to the amount of clothing they were all wearing. The place was freezing, but kind of exotic and the whiff of the next new thing to move pheromones - inhaled - well one could say Gucci, or Chanel, granted expensive, but no designer label, more street-wise chemical for the wealthy maladjusted, or just down and dirty maladjusted, and then another aphrodisiac passed on tongues with a kiss, the two in this crystal palace frozen and pristine, watched each other and watched the crowd. People were warming up the way they knew best. She abstained from the chemicals and of course there was pure for the elitist. She was not elitist and pure was best ignored, these 'good buddies' were never on her manifest. One had to keep one's wits about them, when strategically mapping one's life, if not one's night. Control, you know - harnessing life - in one way or another. The strobe lights were giving her a headache and as she watched bodies pumping to the primitive age-old ceremony on the dance floor, she thought of escape...yes indeed, escape into fresh air and no yelling to be heard. Just 'pure' silence, fresh air, an opportunity to breathe freely without the suffocating constant acquiescing to passive conformity, in a highly competitive and aggressive playground, where levels of standard were set and there was no real originality. She surmised his age and thought, without closing her eyes in sheer anguish, although the reflex to shut the thought out was there,"...way too old". She smiled. Tightly. Fresh air of course, could bring with it a nasty case of hypothermia, or worse, frost-bite. Best to stay warm with the crowd. Not that she was a follower by any long stretch...of the imagination. She could not help thinking, a fleet tally-ho of taxi back to the rumoured den of inequity, red light district, no less. She was wearing vintage, he was wearing new. They were both over-dressed. “I’m a writer, but not how you write”. He said, like he knew her. “What do you mean? You don’t even know me”. She replied waspishly, taking a delicate sip of her tart green apple martini and throwing him a dry look, which if he had to admit to himself, kind of turned him on. He liked a challenge. “Oh but I do." he admonished her, "I've been reading you for some time now, over eighteen months. You show great promise. I do my research - thoroughly. In any event, I can tell by the way you silently sum up the room with those feral eyes. I can tell, because I am highly intuitive. You would eviscerate even the slightest withdrawal from a truthful fiction, should a rookie writer be so courageous as to offer you their soul on a page for your comment or recommendation. I pity the poor writers that cross your path”. “This is interesting” She responded, she kind of liked his arrogance, but hell no, would never admit to it. “I think you've had a little too much of that Apricot Stoli. What do you write then?”. “Primarily, I publish” he said, “but I also write and I write very well, but non-fiction”. ‘Oh,” she said, summing him up in one dire glance, “...one of those.” “What do you mean, 'Oh one of those'?” he grinned. She guessed he thought he grinned, boyishly. “You know, one of those who thinks life is non-fiction”. She glanced over at the next mark. “Hmmm, this is going to be fun” He laughed. "Do you think?", She responded flippantly. The Publishers' Ball, at the Ice Hotel was turning out to be an intriguing feast of debauchery, duelling egos, petulant competition, counting numbers and at the end of the night, in the ways of a large gathering of over-compensated publishers and under-compensated writers, who had imbibed too much of the Devil's Urine and were all biting sarcasm and drivelling emotion, needy and wanting to be acknowledged and compensated in one way or another, well, you know how it usually goes....it was logical to surmise, the night would combust or implode with the usual virulent sex and subversive politics. Ah, another realm, kind of different, but same old same old. Jukkasjärvi, Ice Hotel, Sweden, was a world away she thought, from the usual same old same old, but kind of familiar. "I do think", he assured her, continuing his train of thought. "Too much thinking is dangerous," she responded, "Dance?". She lead. He followed, much to his chagrin. To be continued ... (LadyLabyrinth/2019) Dope Lemon / Salt N Pepa https://youtu.be/Uq_TBTQi2h0 Dope Lemon / Smooth Big Cat https://youtu.be/YPf0tfSseaw Dope Lemon/ Midnight Slow https://youtu.be/PdpwtWGpPjM 1. Research continues
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