Do Not Talk To Strangers

I am a fan of talking to strangers when something about them catches my eye. A shirt of a band I love, an interesting hairstyle, et cetera. I have no problem when a stranger with the same motives says something to me. But sitting here at Starbeezy's with my buddy Angela, we were approached by a Creepy McCreeperson of the third kind. He sidled up to us like a shy cat, his yellow beanie almost glowing in the muted Starby-light. The idea was money, I thought. He's going to ask, and I'm going to deny him because I believe in providing food-not-money. But the question escaping his mouth was not about money. It was a faint muttering coming from somewhere within his drooping head, "do either of you have boyfriends?"

"HUH?" was the crackwhip that came right out of my mouth. If you read my last entry, you understand that HUH. So he repeats himself, only slightly louder this time, but I could tell it was the same by the way his chapped red and feeble lips formed the sentence.

While Angela sat staring, I answered for both of us with a general "Uh.... yes." I was going to add a flourish by saying I was married, but as I was not wearing my normal assemblage of rings I felt I'd be contradicted by my empty hands, which rested firmly on my 'puter's keyboard.

And so he stalked away without another word. We watched him at the table outside for a few minutes, the table where two seemingly 14 year olds sat and kissed each other on the necks while he sat frozen with his hands underneath his low chin as a result of his slouchy head.

Now I remember why I have anxiety about pulling up directly next to people when I stop at red lights, why I wear my huge metal rings, why I don't look at the floor when I walk so as to appear a victim. Because everyone is a F*CKING sinister ratsbane.