I can’t make up what just happened …
So my son’s at a birthday party, and I wanted to find a place to write for a few hours. The coffee shop had no outlets, the Barnes & Noble was overcrowded. There’s a small chain restaurant, Wahoo’s, that sells tacos and stuff. I entered, there was a table near an outlet, I bought a drink, sat and plugged in.
It’s pretty empty. I’m surrounded by folders, notes, books. I also have a Playboy magazine, because this particular issue includes a fantastic Q&A with the guy I’m writing about. So I’m typing away, and the open Playboy is on my lap. It’s open to the interview, so no naked women are in sight.
Two young kids are playing with a rubber ball at an adjacent table. The balls gets away from one of them and rolls beneath my legs. The kids come over. I lean down to grab the ball. As I do this, my magazine closes and falls—cover up—to the floor.
There’s a moment—brief, painful—where a naked blonde woman with enormous breasts is staring up at me and the two boys.
“Here’s your ball,” I mumble.
They walk off—scarred eternally.