Sort of Fairy Tale

So.

So.
Do you have my book?

I think this is sort of neat.

What?

You and I, here to meet.
It's about as precious as precious can get.
I mean, look, we're both here, and we've met at the Met!

Listen –

Anyway, ever since I found your book
I have pictured this moment.

Really?

Uh-huh

Wow.

I imagined me standing here with Monet for a while
And then you stumbling in, but with more of a smile
Yes, well, in my head we hug and our friendship sets sail
Like an almost, not quite, New York, sort of, fairy tale

Don't touch me

I sensed from your notebook your fiery nature
Your penmanship crackles with rage

What?

Your handwriting's wonderfully hard to decipher
But boy does it conjure you right off the page

Wait, you read my notes?

Your lack of hesitation. Your violent punctuation.
Yes, I knew right away you'd be someone to meet.
It's not every day I'm convinced so completely
But something is telling me we're on the trail of a
Semi, could be, quasi, sort of, fairy tale.

Listen, I have a very important meeting –

This moment could be like a scene from a movie
Two hapless strangers united by fate

Yes, I –

And I think real lives make the best kind of movies
I've always said, "Warren, just wait.
Give yourself over to fate."
And soon without warning, your life's gonna start.
One stroke at a time, like a great work of art.
And now you being here, I think this could unveil a
Perfect, lasting, Warren, sort of –

Look, I don't mean to be a buzzkill
But, here is something you should know
I have wasted half my morning coming here
'Cause you're a fucking weirdo
No, I will not lose my composure.
'Cause, yes, I'm a civil kind of girl
Ordinarily I take deep breaths and count to ten
But right now I'm so far from zen
That frankly, there is nothing I can do but tell you
"Thanks for the waste of a day
And thanks for all this annoyance and strife
Yes, thanks for this waste of my time
And for making me a part of your waste of a life."
I came here for my book.
Not for some stupid weirdo and his stupid painting.

This painting reminds me of people like us
Thousands of tiny specks

Oh my God

Huddled together in random arrangements
That nobody expects
Every dot, on its own ordinary and pale
But thrown together one by one
They make this dazzling, joyous, hopeful, sort of.
Never mind.

So, can I have my book?

Oh. Right. Sorry.

Oh, thank God.
My Professor was not going to give me an extension because he's
like this Stalin of English lit who has yet to crack a smile in his
Life and if I didn't show up in his office
today with these notes my life would've been over.

Okay.

Oh. Uhm. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?

Really?

You're gay, right?

Uh-huh

Twenty minutes.