To be and not to look like it

On my stereo Freddy is singing a Spanish version of Gershwin’s The Man I Love with her deep and sensuous voice. Amazing to think that this woman was a maid who enjoyed singing in clubs and bars in Cuba. She got to record just one album. But one was enough. It’s beautiful. It’s Bévinda’s producer who discovered the tapes and decided to re-release them on CD. I don’t think anyone took notice, but as soon as I heard her voice, I feel in love with it.

Speaking of love, I was (again) the wilful puppet to my imagination tonight when I accepted a blind date. A blind date? It had been a long time since I last went to one. Blind date, but not a deaf date, because I talked two hours with the person on the phone yesterday. The description I have gathered led my imagination to run wild (and romantic... sensuous, sexuous...?). When asked if I wanted to see a picture of him. All I knew was that he was half Indian, in his early forties, that he had a wife who passed away, and a teenage daughter he loved dearly. "I work out a lot" he added. I replied no. "I liked to be surprised." I said. 

And a surprise it was. A big one. He was staying at a posh hotel near the Montparnasse Tower. The door opened and all my silly fantasy deflated in a second. How someone could be baiting someone else with what obviously was a big fat lie, knowing that the truth would sooner or later be uncovered just eludes me. I didn’t say anything. I was furious and laughing at myself for being so foolish and stupid. My blind date was fat. And nervous. He may have been athletic in his younger years, but nothing much remained of it. The stated age may had been conveniently diminished on the phone, but theose years did shine in all their glory in front of my eyes. He offered me to come. I sat down and asked for a glass of sparkling water. Obviously he knew the deception wasn't much to my liking. We chatted for a little while – long enough so not to be rude. But why did I compel myself to be so polite? I wonder.

A pathetic attempt to forget Andy, obviously.

Oh sweet mystery of love, I’ll never get thee.