Sort of Fairy Tale

So. So. Do you have my book? I think this is sort of neat. What? You and I, here to meet. It's about as precious as precious can get. I mean, look, we're both here, and we've met at the Met! Listen – Anyway, ever since I found your book I have pictured this moment. Really? Uh-huh Wow. I imagined me standing here with Monet for a while And then you stumbling in, but with more of a smile Yes, well, in my head we hug and our friendship sets sail Like an almost, not quite, New York, sort of, fairy tale Don't touch me I sensed from your notebook your fiery nature Your penmanship crackles with rage What? Your handwriting's wonderfully hard to decipher But boy does it conjure you right off the page Wait, you read my notes? Your lack of hesitation. Your violent punctuation. Yes, I knew right away you'd be someone to meet. It's not every day I'm convinced so completely But something is telling me we're on the trail of a Semi, could be, quasi, sort of, fairy tale. Listen, I have a very important meeting – This moment could be like a scene from a movie Two hapless strangers united by fate Yes, I – And I think real lives make the best kind of movies I've always said, "Warren, just wait. Give yourself over to fate." And soon without warning, your life's gonna start. One stroke at a time, like a great work of art. And now you being here, I think this could unveil a Perfect, lasting, Warren, sort of – Look, I don't mean to be a buzzkill But, here is something you should know I have wasted half my morning coming here 'Cause you're a fucking weirdo No, I will not lose my composure. 'Cause, yes, I'm a civil kind of girl Ordinarily I take deep breaths and count to ten But right now I'm so far from zen That frankly, there is nothing I can do but tell you "Thanks for the waste of a day And thanks for all this annoyance and strife Yes, thanks for this waste of my time And for making me a part of your waste of a life." I came here for my book. Not for some stupid weirdo and his stupid painting. This painting reminds me of people like us Thousands of tiny specks Oh my God Huddled together in random arrangements That nobody expects Every dot, on its own ordinary and pale But thrown together one by one They make this dazzling, joyous, hopeful, sort of. Never mind. So, can I have my book? Oh. Right. Sorry. Oh, thank God. My Professor was not going to give me an extension because he's like this Stalin of English lit who has yet to crack a smile in his Life and if I didn't show up in his office today with these notes my life would've been over. Okay. Oh. Uhm. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Really? You're gay, right? Uh-huh Twenty minutes.