Authors Note: This is a really weird type of fiction, and if you want an explanation then go read a brief note called Definition of Quantum Fiction.

Peace,
-Ryan


Dark Yoga: "Elizabeth the Rich"
12/19/06
by Ryan Munevar

After the scattering of Mary's ashes I followed Elizabeth to a bar/restaurant in Corona del Mar called Banderas, her 2006 Silver Mercedes leading the way, my 2000 Piece of Shit White Hyundai following.
         Banderas was an upscale place, low lighting, high on atmosphere, with a weird angled parking lot. Took Elizabeth 3 minutes just to park and repark in her space before she was satisfied.
         Stepping out of her car she mumbled. "I hate parallel parking."
         "But you didn't have to parallel park,"
         "Well it felt like it."
         She quickly walked past me into the restaurant.
         "Do you want to sit at a table or the bar?" the hostess asked us.
         Elizabeth looked over at me.
         "Table," I said.
         "Right this way," the hostess said.
         She led us through the restaurant and seated us towards the back by the windows and handed us menus.
         "This menu is dirty," Elizabeth said to the hostess.
         "Oh, I'm sorry, I'll get you another one," the hostess took it and walked away.
         "That's unacceptable," Elizabeth said to me.
         "OK… Do you want mine?"
         "No, I want my menu, and I want it to be clean."
         "OK…"
         "I'm just stressed out."
         "Tends to happen at Funerals."
         "What funeral? Only 3 people showed up."
         "Yea…"
         "I called over 60 people and none of them came."
         "Maybe they were busy."
         "No, they didn't care."
         The hostess came back over with a clean menu. "Here you go, and your waitress will be over in a minute."
         Elizabeth just looked at her and then took the menu opening it up with a roll of her eyes and a low sigh.
         "Do you like calamari?" I asked her.
         "Yes,"
         "Do you want to split one with me?"
         "No,"
         "OK…"
         "Roasted artichokes are good here. I'm going to get one of those and a Gin and Tonic."
         The waitress came up with a big smile.
         "Hello, can I start you off with some drinks?"
         Elizabeth looked at me.
         "You go," I indicated to her as I looked at my Menu again trying to figure out a drink.
         "I'll have a Calamari appetizer and a gin and tonic, a water, and separate checks," Elizabeth said.
          No problem, and for you?" the waitress asked.
         I blinked. "Uh, I'll have Popcorn Shrimp and I guess a Vodka with Fresh Squeezed Grape Fruit Juice."
         "Oh you're going to love that, it's one of my favorite drinks," the waitress said with a big smile.
         She took our menus and walked away.
         Elizabeth leaned forward a bit. "Why did you get the popcorn shrimp?"
         "What?"
         "Why did you get that instead of the Roasted Artichoke?"
         "Well I was going to get the Calamari but you ordered it."
         "That still doesn't explain why you didn't get the roasted artichoke."
         "I just didn't feel like it."
         "And did you see the way that waitress was flirting?"
         "Not really."
         "They all do that just to get better tips. I know, I use to be a waitress when I was in college."
         "Good for her."
         "Why is that good? Why should a woman have to flaunt herself just to make better money?"
         "OK, what the fuck is going? This conversation is bordering on the truly weird."
         Elizabeth looked down at the table and then up at me.
         "I just can't stop thinking about the funeral."
         We sat there silently for a minute until the waitress brought the drinks over.
         "Oh, and could I get a water too?" I asked her.
         "Sure, no problem," she touched my shoulder with her hand as she said it and smiled before she left to get it.
         "You see? You see how she has to whore herself?" Elizabeth said to me.
         "Are you crazy?"
         "Don't ever call me crazy."
         "I wasn't calling you, I was asking you."
         "You were implying."
         "Just stop. This is the kind of conversation you should have with some one you are dating, not someone you just met."
         "Dating? I'm too old for you."
         "What?"
         "How old are you?" she asked me.
         "27,"
         "What? You look like your 18."
         "It's the Yoga."
         "Or genetics."
         "You really think I look 18?"
         "I'm surprised they didn't card you."
         "They actually do most of the time."
         "How old do you think I am?"
         "I don't know. 31."
         She scowled. "Yes," she looked away from me as she took a drink of her Gin and Tonic, then she turned back on me. "Why would you say 31?"
         "It was just a guess."
         "You think I look 31 years old?"
         "I was right wasn't I?"
         "That's just fucked up."
         "What the fuck? You asked me to guess didn't you? All I did was guess."
         "I can't believe you answered. That's just so rude."
         Silence again as we drank some more.
         "Do you think I look good for 31?"
         "If I answer you are you going to go ape shit and try to stab me with a fork?"
         "Never mind."
         The appetizers came and we both ordered seconds on the drinks.
         She started to tear up and sniffle and I felt the need to break the new bought of silence. "Yes, I think you look good for 31."
         "You don't have to lie."
         "I'm not lying. I think you look really good."
         "You're just saying that."
         "No, you look good, trust me, I'm a yoga teacher, I study the human body every day."
         She took a drink and looked at me over the rim of the glass as the ice clinked around in it.
         "Do you just stare at women dressed in tight fitting workout clothes all day?"
         I kind of smiled. "Not all day."
         "Sounds like a fun job."
         "It is. Do you like being a lawyer?"
         "I love it."
         "Why?"
         "Because I'm great at it."
         "What kind of law do you practice?"
         "Pro Bono for Sex Crime victims."
         "All Pro Bono?"
         "Yes."
         "Cool,"
         "You want to know how I can afford a Mercedes right?"
         "Nope,"
         "Yes, my family is rich."
         "Good for them,"
         "What does that mean?"
         "Nothing, it's good to be rich," I said.
         "Do you mean Jewish?"
         "No, I mean rich."
         "You were implying I was Jewish. Are you anti semtic?"
         "What the fuck? No."
         "Because it sounded like you were."
         "No. Not at all."
         "Are you saying you like Jewish girls?"
         "Women, Jewish women."
         "Bringing up my age again?"
         "Not at all."
         "Do you ever get hard looking at all those girls bent over?"
         I slightly choked on my drink and coughed, "What?"
         "I'm sorry. I get weird when I drink."
         "You were kind of weird before you drank."
         She giggled. "You see those girls over there?" She pointed at 3 girls sitting at the bar?"
         "Yea,"
         "You know what they are called?"
         "No, what?"
         "Coyotes."
         "Coyotes? Why?"
         "Because they hunt and stalk rich men to become their trophy wives. They are in it for the money."
         "Oh no… Not that. In this day and age?"
         She laughed.
         "It's true. Could you imagine a woman marrying for money and nothing but that. Have to have sex with her husband every night just to pay for her lifestyle?"
         "Oh heavens no."
         The whole time I had been trying not to notice how every time when I said something that pissed her off she would give me a glare/scowl combination while leaning towards me slightly letting me see just a bit down her black blouse.
         She did it again as she spoke. "How do you think they relieve all that boredom? After they marry him and he works all day and they have all that time to themselves, what do you think they do to relive that tension?"
         "I don't know."
         "Isn't that what you are for? To relieve that tension."
         "That's part of it."
         But then things shifted as she sat back. Her eyes went from smoky sexy with alcohol to a light snowfall of cold sadness.
         "I'm so scared I'm going to die like her. All alone and no one at my funeral," she said.
         "Make sure to live a life worth living then, with lots of friends, and family."
         "I think your full of shit."
         "I do to."
         "You are not suppose to agree."
         "Confusing isn't it."
         "Why do you keep looking at my tits?"
         "I'm not."
         "Yes you are."
         "No I'm not."
         "Yes, you are."
         "You like them don't you?"
         "…Yes."
         "Did you know they are real?"
         "Yes."
         "You're a pig."
         "Good to know…"
         "A dirty fucking pig…"
         She rubbed a foot against my leg under the table. I half jumped.
         "Pig…" she said.
         "You're kind of fucked up aren't you?" I asked.
         She scowled and pulled her foot back.
         "Fuck you… Just… Fuck you, that's so rude."
         "What?"
         "I can't believe you said that."
         "I meant from the alcohol."
         "No, I know what you meant."
         "No."
         "Yes, you know what. Fuck you."
         She stood up and put her purse over her shoulder.
         "Wait?" I said half standing up.
         "No, that was fucked up, I can't believe you said that."
         "What"
         "What ever."
         She walked away. Out of the restaurant. Leaving me there.
         The waitress came over with the Calamari and Artichoke.
         "Fuck…" I mumbled as I started in on the Calamari.
         For reference, the Calamari was better than the Artichoke. I ate them both. Looking around Banderas, I saw the Coyotes, the women hustling dick for gold digger money.
         Eye contact is an evil form of communication.
         This one girl, with black hair and no bra, her friend, the blond, with plastic blue eyes, they seem to notice me, maybe they smell my presence, who the fuck knows…
         Befoe I care, they have satten down at my booth.
         Somewhere in the conversation they ask me. "How much are you worth?"
         "All the world, and even hell," I respond.
         They giggle, and then it's on.
         This wicked poetry of self depreciation/hatred I can drip all night.
         So can they…
         The moral of the story is that I can't even remember which one I slept with.
         But the real tragedy is, I don't care…
         …This is simply the way I die.