meeting Jenny, the girl of my dreams.

Jenny.
I was sober as a judge when I first saw her. (Whoever imagined a drunk judge). I was under the influence of nothing save the moment. Yet, she appeared to me like a surreal being. She was the sirens and nymphs that seduced men of old by their glance and the… that Tolkien and Paolini grew fond of.
She was is breathtaking. The stuff that makes up the universe.


You don’t meet women like Jenny anywhere. You meet them in your dreams. Or as portraits in museums and fantasies of writers and poets imprisoned between covers of books. It wasn’t a miracle then, that I met her at an art event.
I was stupefied.
“Hi. You’re that editor, right?” she had said. Oh, the good old days of me working in a backstreet underground magazine. That she seemingly read.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say.
She blushes at it. Realising she hadn’t showed me the slightest bit of courtesy.
“Oh. Sorry. I am a visual artist….”
She was saying before I disrupted her words. Fuxk courtesy. Anyways.
“so, which of these yellowing-maize teeth is a product of your pen? Or brush?” I joke.
She laughs at it. Her laugh is pure too. Like she means to laugh.
“They cannot be that real,” in between chuckles. “But, sneak a brush in, won’t you?”
She’s nice.
“Yes. I am the editor.” I remind her. I wasn’t into….
“Aaah, no space for small talk.” And she said it. Can’t a man keep even his own words in this godforsaken place?
“Your magazine is life. It gives me a reason to await my subscription each time. If anything, I am pleased each time I see the post office car make my delivery of it.” What a bore. Just a fan. Living in a posh estate.
“Hmm.” I am a thoughtful man.
“So, you think I’m not interesting enough?” Hah!
“What?”
“I read what you write. I have for long. I know how you like your shoes, and how you like people being.” Aaah. A smart reader.
And yes, I am also just as surprised and disarmed as well.
“You’re pretty.”
“To mean I am plain.” She sounded forlorn. She sounded… who cares, right?
“Look, we are in an art forum, I’ve been waiting all day to talk, of which I’m slated to be among the last speakers. My ads is sore from sitting in this hell hole since morning… And I’ve been doing nothing save piss and drink more coffee to piss. You think I am in a position to engage you right now?”
Yes, I was frustrated being here. Their seats were hard. Hard. Haha. Hard.
“Their buns are terrible too,” she said with a smile.
Haha. This bitch. Okay. Okay. She wasn’t a donkey afterall.
“Let’s look at these paintings.” I took her by the hand.
“Well, as per you, I bet their smile looks like maize sneaking glances through its jacket.”
Stuff of dreams.
Me and Jenny have been at it, sex and companionship, for a while now.
We came across a painting. Peaceful as a Rothko piece would be.
“My name is Horace,” I whispered loudly. Making her hear and the painting, which was dead anyways, didn’t react to it. So I had introduces me okay. “Horace Spencer.” Yes. In classic James Bond fashion. 😁
“Nice to meet a fellow artist. At least whose hands doesn’t smell of paint,” she said shaking my hand. And kept silent. For long. Too long.
She wasn’t gonna tell her name.
The silence between us erupted in an engulfing cloud of the tension of her arrogance. Her ass was still silent despite everything. Maybe she was processing the painting. But oh come on, it wasn’t like she needed to ascertain whether the paint was mixed okay…
“So, you aren’t gonna say your name?” I bulged. I always did.
“Jenny.” Jenny. Jenny. Jojo. Fuck.
“Say, Jenny, do you believe in fate.”
“Does fate believe in me?”
This woman.
“You and I, have never met. I know you but not on a personal level. At least nothing save what you are online and your writings. Which BTW are good.”
Sigh.
“Now,” she continued. “A question of your morals, do you wanna go smoke or you don’t smoke?”
Wow.
There are women in this world. And there is Jenny. And I am “supposed” to be with this one as was revealed to me years back by Jojo.
I am a smoker yes. But who goes out bellowing out smoke with people you’ve just met 😏
“Where are we going?”
“Rooftop of course.”
“Aren’t you afraid we might fall off to our death?”
“We’re getting high. Not flying dumb ass.”
Me. I smoke with people I’ve just met. I don’t care about shit 😁
Especially if the said girl and…. No, there’s a story to it. Right now, I just wanna smoke with the girl of my “dreams.”

For events that came before this story, follow this link

My typical day before her

Jojo – my ex, chanced upon a prophecy on Jenny, (oh the Js 😂) here’s the link to the story https://anothernotebookblog.wordpress.com/2019/01/24/dealing-with-mad-men-when-your-lover-leaves/

Also, here are my thoughts after meeting Jenny https://anothernotebookblog.wordpress.com/2019/02/02/thoughts-on-jenny-my-love/

Cheerio!

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