By exercising daily I can make myself look 28 again, eh? Ah, yes! '89 was indeed the summer of love. Oddly, however, if I can but gaze upon a lovely creature, who is, say, cavorting about a small stage before a few mirrors and lights while applying her considerable talents against, say again, a brass pole, then, by Jesus! -- I don't know what it is! -- I just have to satisfy this abrupt desire to go push some weights; stretch out on a soft but firm elastic ball; ride a reclining stationary cycle -- we've all seen the footage, am I not coherent here?
My god, this girl is an athlete: muscular and strong, though soft and aloof; magnificently proportioned; mesmerizing... climbing and twirling and gyrating, gently levelling, landing. It's all so sublimely rich and luxuriant, even as my dollar bills vanish before my eyes. And when her distant pupils turn to focus on mine, I am made as lost -- in an abyss, in a dream, in a lie.
And here I am now at my table, watching her stand in line for her coffee or her tea and her cookie. She wears her glasses invitingly, along the bridge leaving her baby blues unobstructed, looking academic. She may never have existed before this moment but she's here now.
Or she's over there.
I'll be off to the gym now.