Me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head are watching TV late at night. It's some new public access show where these girls dance around in their bikinis and it flashes their telephone number if you want to go on a date with them. So far most of them have been generally unnatractive. Mr. Happy Puppet Head laughs so hard when he sees them, then drinks more alchohol.
Then there is this one girl now in a leopard print one-piece with some sparkly shiny parts and she's doing this sexy dance around a motorcycle. She's got long blonde hair down to almost her knees and she wiggles in a real nice sort of way. Mr. Happy Puppet Head laughs at her, too, but I just stare. She's beautiful and I love her.
"Look at her! Jesus!" Mr. Happy Puppet Head guffaws.
"What do you mean, what? She's a moron. Look." He takes another swig from his flask, but he keeps his eyes on me.
"Yeah, sure. But she's kind of cute."
"No, she's a moron," he says. "Too skinny, too. No meat on her. I like the big ones, you know. Just burry my head all up in there. Yeah..." The beautiful girl I now love on TV swings her legs around the motorcyle and kind of wobbles and almost falls over. Mr. Happy Puppet Head bursts out laughing again, but I think it's endearing. That little wobble was like a glimpse into her soul.
I repeat the flashing number on the screen over and over in my head so I won't forget it. Later I'll write it down and maybe I'll call her and she'll see me and fall in love and it'll be so wonderful. Maybe she'll fall in love with me right off, or maybe I'll have to convince her. Maybe we'll get married and have kids and a mortgage. Maybe I'll actually even call her.