I met J in an outdoor café in Budapest, she was clothed in crinoline of smoky burgundy and appeared softer than the rain. She also beared a slight resemblance to Art Garfunkle, but that's neither here nor there. At that time, I was in Hungary on a student’s visa - apparently somebody had left it on the chair in the café, and although I found it quite uncomfortable, I was too lazy to remove it from underneath my buttocks.
In the midst of the bustling lunchtime congregation she stood out like a freshly minted dime – petite, shiny, and with little ridges on her rim. I was instantly struck by her gestalt, as she had sailed at my head a tiny paper airplane with only the word ‘gestalt’ written on its side in a child-like scrawl.
It wasn’t her astounding beauty that initially drew me to her, as in all honesty she looked like something you’d find in a petry dish. No, what got me was the odd fact that she was carrying in her left hand an extraordinarily large socket wrench. Later I found out that she was a studying abroad, working on her doctorate in advanced plumbing.
I must tell you, she was quite a sight, sitting there cross legged with a decidedly dainty air talking to herself in low tones, and gesticulating wildly with the wrench. I was all at once intrigued, nauseated, threatened and slightly aroused. I listened in to the conversation she was having with herself, and overheard her use the word ‘dialectical’ – I was instantly smitten. I sidled up to her suavely and asked her if she’d care for another coffee or perhaps a piece of Danish.
‘Hungarians don’t eat Danish’, she retorted in an odd monotone.
‘Ahh… I had no idea. So you’re from here?’
‘No, I’m Armenian, but when in Rome…’
I could tell she would be a hard nut to crack, but one look at her wrench and I knew I had to have her. Still I had to be cautious, for one thing she was carrying a potential implement of destruction, for another my mother had always taught me never to inhale too deeply next to an Armenian.
‘Well perhaps you’d like some strudel then, I hear they make a fine strudel’
‘OH!’, her eyes lit up.. ’Yes please, I would love a prune strudel’
…and with that I was in!
It’s funny, up until then I had ordered many different types of pastry; choux; danish; profiterole; but after J it would be only prune strudel from then on. It was almost as if it were some kind of ‘psychic howl’ a broken promise made to myself, of which I alone was aware. It was a way of showing solidarity to myself, or rather ‘solo-darity’ as I was the only one who understood, or cared.
Nowadays, every time I eat a piece of prune strudel I chuckle knowingly to myself. One time a fellow patron at a local café was so irritated by my knowing chuckles that he beat me very badly, and put me in the hospital for two months. I still continue to knowingly chuckle though – I just do it much quieter.
J and I ate our strudel, flirting, and laughing - I with her, and her mostly with herself – well into the crisp Budapest-ian night. As the shadows became longer and longer, it was time for us to part, but not before she was able to give me a tender hand-job underneath the table. Well, technically it wasn’t a true hand-job, as she used her socket wrench – luckily as I have stated before it was a very large wrench!
My heart, and penis were never the same after that night. That wretched, ridge-y, mental case with a large socket wrench embodied everything I’d ever wanted in a woman. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be as later that week I would be deported for attempting to fuck a fire hydrant in broad daylight.
I will never forget J though….my only true love.
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