Casanova’s Best Friend

Went to a birthday bash with Casanova the other day. He wasn’t really invited. He came as my guest. But does that stop him? No.

Standing before a room of strangers with a favourable gender ratio, Casanova’s eyes quickly shifted from beady to ‘Come hither, right now.’

“Please not tonight,” I pleaded, “Have some dip.”

His insatiable desire for cupping the breasts of ladies is matched only by his love of eating hummus. He once attempted to do both at once but found the whole experience desperately dissatisfying.

Two vivacious young maidens approached us from across the drawing room. They shimmered as they neared us, clad in their sumptuous dresses. The one that talks first in those situations introduced herself as Rosa and her quiet companion as Elena. Ah yes, Italian ladies with names ending in an ‘A.’

Rosa then asked, “What do you do?” in that really uppity manner that implies we’re all defined by our chosen occupation.

“My father owns orchards” I said. Do you really think I want to stand on apples all my life? If so, you’re dead wrong. I don’t.

Casanova played coy. The man is typecast. In his school’s Nativity, he played coy. Never expect a straight answer from him.

“Let’s just say, I have to make sure everything’s exactly where it should be.”

As he actually makes his mouth say those words in that order, he slowly looked both of them up and down. He’s checking they’re both fully limbed ‘cause he’s shallow like that.

Elena, the one who hadn’t spoken up to now then goes: ‘So, you must be very good with your hands.’

Wow. You can’t say hello but you can say that? Pretty big logic jump there too.

“Yes, I’m expert. But don’t be fooled. My vocation demands intellectual rigour.”

They both gush, thumbing through the 7 or 8 jobs they’ve committed to memory. Surprise, surprise they can’t work out what he does for a living.

“We just don’t know, Mr. Casanova.”

My bet is that these two have never won a game of Pictionary in their life. Isn’t a lack of curiosity one of the saddest things to behold?

My mind, having rendered this pair as utterly inane, began to wander onto other things. I was slipping into autopilot just as easily as Casa slips out of a stranger’s chamber come the break of dawn. Strangely for a Lothario figure he can’t stand somebody else making him breakfast. Even if it’s something he likes they never do it right, he regularly tells me.

Blurring out their prattle as best as I could, I noticed that Elena and Rosa’s dresses were less frilly than the shirts Casanova and I were adorning. I’ll be honest; I cannot wait for this trend to be over. Forever getting my sleeve caught on door handles. How many more must die before society acknowledges that frills and a community so dependent upon candlelight is a bad combination?

I reluctantly become conscious of the situation once more.

Casanova: “I must admit, what I do- it remains a mystery even to me, my ladies,” Coy. “All I know is, I’m rather good at it.”

“He’s a librarian,” I stormed off towards the bread sticks, “He’s a fucking librarian.”

In so many ways.

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