The Day I Met Elvis
I was sitting at the bus stop, balming out my lips and holding a compact mirror. Yes, I look like an auntie but I am of an ‘auntie age’ already so stop nagging. I’ve even been called ‘Auntie’ by disgusting teenagers before. Hmph! What insolence. Anyways, the bus came, I snapped the mirror shut and made my way resignedly to the bus.
Suddenly : Heelllooo Stranger. Who’s that with the smouldering gaze and sexy pout that’s burning the air crisp? Elvis?! (Wait. That’s too far off. Someone more boyish.) Gasp! GREG?! (That’s Utt to you, but since we’re on first-name basis…). Greg?! (Utt) In my charming, suburban neighbourhood? How can that be?! (Suddenly I’m thinking to myself in exclamation marks). Now who’s that woman beside him – a girlfriend? No wait, she’s way older. On closer look, it’s his mum. Yeah same eyes. And definitely not Utt either. Taller, broader, younger, sexier, yummier…
me : “Hey, where have you been?”
Elvis/Utt : “Err… do I know you?”
me : “You will soon. I have a huge bed at home with both our names (naked bodies) on it.” smile coyly.
Elvis/Utt + Mum : “… “
OF COURSE that didn’t happen. What do you think I was, a Desperate Housewife? As the bus reached the terminal, I watched his mother drag him away in the other direction. But not before he turned and shot another fireball my way. So he’s checking me out to see if I were checking him out. “Hello police? Arsonist spotted. Firemen pronto!” Oh well, knowing my luck, he’s probably like, 19. And gay. Not that I mind, really. I feel manly sometimes. Oops! Too much information.