A Hundred Words

I met you on a Sunday and by Tuesday I knew your name but nothing else. I'm fearless. Are you? I will tell you anything and everything about me. Only ask. You don't. My Plan B involves asking. You give brief details about your hometown and what life was like when you were young. Things that might seem meaningless to you, offer clues to your true identity. “I am a man without labels,” you once admitted. I nodded – I know exactly what you meant. Your need to run exceeds your need to stay. Walk down a block or two and find another woman who doesn't care about your name, who doesn't want to know you – did you give her a tip? I don't want your life story – tell me who you are in a hundred words or less. Sum up your existence. You have 3 minutes. Start. I agree to count your words so you begin: “I am a poet. Any question about money has just been answered. I love people – men by day, business suits and strong handshakes, and women by night. I am a taker, not a giver.” You continue. “I saw a flower once, more lovely than any woman, now or ever. The color left me breathless. And as it opened up I realized this is true beauty. But it won't endure. By tomorrow the petals will be brown and limp.” You have a shelf life of five days, tops, and you are thirty words shy of a hundred. You're not my type. I'm moving on.