Today, in the early evening, I was minorly amused by the frantic running around of people, apparently believing that they stood any chance of reaching their homes before they got entirely soaked by the rain. From the comfort of my room, with windows providing an excellent view over the haircuts being all messed up, make-up being washed out and umbrellas being torn apart, I was having a good time.
Then the thought struck me. Thursday. Seven thirty. Damn, I knew I had forgotten something. Rain, or any change in the weather for that matter, always makes me forgetful somehow. On the other hand, my memory tends to be so lousy that I've never found 'forgetting' and 'remembering' to really cover the processes that go on in my mind. Running across some vague recollection of some bit of knowledge or recently-made appointment tends to be more by chance.
Unfortunately and predictably, this was one of the times when my neurons decided they should muster up some inspiration and tell me that I promised to go and help out at the local salsa class this evening, offering my male presence at a place where there was supposedly a dramatic shortage of this essential ingredient.
Another peek at my watch, and then, out of the window, did not improve my mood, but my erradic sense of responsibility finally got the better of me and drove me into the wetness outside. I was instantly tempted to run back inside, but the cold already seemed to have frozen my conscious thought and, in mechanical mode, got me to find my bike.
Several minutes later, following the exercise of several acrobatic movements to recover my bike from the middle of a muddy and slippery puddle, I found myself on my way to the local salsa bar. Naturally, the zipper of my jacket had expected its refusal to operate on this particular night to go unnoticed, as only a fool, idiot, or obsessive salsa-philantropist would go out in this weather. As such, the top of my shirt was rapidly sticking to my chest and while cycling as fast as I could, I felt the water creeping further and further down.
By the time I reached the salsa bar, I was shivering and freezing, and anxious to get myself dancing and warmed up, and to receive a small smile of gratitude from the girl who's partner decided not to show up tonight. Eagerly, I stepped through the door, and cast a radiant smile at the girl behind the bar, whose name I finally obtained a week ago. If she hadn't been the messenger of the nerve-wrecking news that she brought me, I might even have asked her for her phone number later that night.
Giving me the sympathetic look of someone who has been seeing customers fleeing into the bar, out of the rain, for the past hour, while I was letting the rain run out of my ears, I was told 'salsa is cancelled'.
Considering the emptiness of the bar, apparently I was the only one who had not been informed about this minor detail, being, after all, only a 'backup dancer'. Apparently, it was felt, it was not necessary to inform these people *before* they travelled through armageddon itself in order to offer their much-needed services.
Criminal, I call it.
Having nothing else to do, I struggled my way back through the atmospheric catastrophe, sinking down in front of my television with a cup of hot tea, and with a grim determination to get my compensation in the form of several sincere apologies and proper dances with the teacher and responsible infidels.
Criminal, I call it.
Then the thought struck me. Thursday. Seven thirty. Damn, I knew I had forgotten something. Rain, or any change in the weather for that matter, always makes me forgetful somehow. On the other hand, my memory tends to be so lousy that I've never found 'forgetting' and 'remembering' to really cover the processes that go on in my mind. Running across some vague recollection of some bit of knowledge or recently-made appointment tends to be more by chance.
Unfortunately and predictably, this was one of the times when my neurons decided they should muster up some inspiration and tell me that I promised to go and help out at the local salsa class this evening, offering my male presence at a place where there was supposedly a dramatic shortage of this essential ingredient.
Another peek at my watch, and then, out of the window, did not improve my mood, but my erradic sense of responsibility finally got the better of me and drove me into the wetness outside. I was instantly tempted to run back inside, but the cold already seemed to have frozen my conscious thought and, in mechanical mode, got me to find my bike.
Several minutes later, following the exercise of several acrobatic movements to recover my bike from the middle of a muddy and slippery puddle, I found myself on my way to the local salsa bar. Naturally, the zipper of my jacket had expected its refusal to operate on this particular night to go unnoticed, as only a fool, idiot, or obsessive salsa-philantropist would go out in this weather. As such, the top of my shirt was rapidly sticking to my chest and while cycling as fast as I could, I felt the water creeping further and further down.
By the time I reached the salsa bar, I was shivering and freezing, and anxious to get myself dancing and warmed up, and to receive a small smile of gratitude from the girl who's partner decided not to show up tonight. Eagerly, I stepped through the door, and cast a radiant smile at the girl behind the bar, whose name I finally obtained a week ago. If she hadn't been the messenger of the nerve-wrecking news that she brought me, I might even have asked her for her phone number later that night.
Giving me the sympathetic look of someone who has been seeing customers fleeing into the bar, out of the rain, for the past hour, while I was letting the rain run out of my ears, I was told 'salsa is cancelled'.
Considering the emptiness of the bar, apparently I was the only one who had not been informed about this minor detail, being, after all, only a 'backup dancer'. Apparently, it was felt, it was not necessary to inform these people *before* they travelled through armageddon itself in order to offer their much-needed services.
Criminal, I call it.
Having nothing else to do, I struggled my way back through the atmospheric catastrophe, sinking down in front of my television with a cup of hot tea, and with a grim determination to get my compensation in the form of several sincere apologies and proper dances with the teacher and responsible infidels.
Criminal, I call it.
glad you liked it 
