So, post-coital Saturday morning, lying in bed with the Russian somewhere after dawn and before noon, we’re having an amazing conversation ranging all across the immense tableau of human thought. I am absolutely enamored by her intellect and the capability of using it and there is nothing that proves this over and over like pillow talk, lazy half-awake musings on the world, the universe…the innermost recesses of imagination…
…flashes of brilliance…
…anyway, laying there as we’re talking, I mention that it is exactly this circumstance, this experience that I will remember on my death bed. Not some groovy-ass TV I once had, not the 12th or 14th car I owned…not any of the houses I’ve lived in…but this feeling, this wide and deep intellectual connection except that…
…later I can never remember a single fucking one of those flashes of brilliance. Not a single sound bite…not a word.
As I’m telling this to the Russian, I mention that maybe I should get a tape recorder, or digital recorder, and set it to voice operated so that in the morning it’ll capture all of the amazing and deep thoughts that get spawned. Or maybe, I add, one of those court reporters, a stenographer, to capture every word. The Russian laughs and then says “And if she’s hot, then we can have a threesome…”
…and I say…
“but she’ll have to promise to shut up…”
Flashes of brilliance I’m telling you.
Flashes. Of. Brilliance.
