Friday, April 11  

Patient

Patience is a virtue that Vic has never claimed to possess.

patient: adjective 1. bearing pains or trials calmly or without complaint 2. manifesting forbearance under provocation or strain 3. not hasty or impetuous 4. steadfast despite opposition, difficulty, or adversity 5. able or willing to bear.

Not one of the many, many definitions of the word fit with Vic's hasty, high-strung, preference for immediate gratification.

She goes out with some friends to a dark bar that used to be a goth hangout; once infested with scabby, ink haired drama queens, now replaced by (only statistically more palatable) young urban hipsters who sniff each others' business cards and flash money around. And when she goes out, she goes out meaning to, sorry to be so pointed and unladylike, to get some.

So it's a happily impulsive non-coincidence that she finds herself grappling sweatily with a guy named (he tells her after the fact) Jon in, pardon the obviousness, the john within an hour of her arrival.

John's most qualifying feature are his delicious hands. Vic holds masculine, defined hands in great, lusty regard. They rise up to cleanly muscular forearms that in turn disappear teasingly by way of hard biceps into his fashionably fit white shirt. Beyond this and now his name, Vic doesn't know much about Jon.

When they've taken the washroom grappling just about as far as washroom grabbling is allowed by public decency laws to go, she removes her tongue from his mouth, wipes her chin, rescinds his temporary access to her cleavage and says "I think you should call me. Here's my number."

She writes it in eyeliner on some toilet paper. Vic is all class.

Jon smiles at her and says "I knew I would meet the woman of my dreams tonight."

Vic doesn't know how to take this, but it implies an impatience that she can relate to. They make a date for the weekend and she goes back to her table, straightening her skirt.