Dinner with Superman

He wore sweats and we shook hands, and then he said, "Give me a hug," and I did.

"You were gazing at me," he said.

"Somebody is in love with HIMself," I said inside my head.

So we went into the restaurant, PF Chang's, which is, btw, mediocre at best. He ordered us Cashew Chicken with brown rice. We shared the chicken and each had a bowl of brown rice. Healthy, tasty, but my mother's is FAR FAR better, just so you know. Just because she's Swedish, doesn't mean that she can't make a mean Chinese. And she is VASTLY superior to PF Chang's.

I ordered a funny cocktail. Some kind of martini that came with a pineapple wedge. I am slightly allergic to pineapple, but a little bit won't kill me, so I ate it; it could have been fresher.

"You know, I have better alcohol at home," he said.

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

Once we got to his place, he left me in the living room to watch tv while he showered and changed. When he emerged, he wore a gaudy striped shirt and jeans.

He was built like a Greek god who had been attending Roman orgies and had forgotten to throw up in the vomitorium one too many times. Or maybe had not ever thrown up. When one eats like a Roman, it's imperative that one throw up. (So don't eat like one!)

Either way, he had visible man boobs. They were very nice, but boobulous, nonetheless. Very firm, his skin very tan. And his eyes were the color of sea glass.

Pity he lacked inner beauty.

But he just did.

Later, after having had him, I turned to the Captain who smiled at me, "Happy?"

"Eh," I told him, "I've had worse." And I touched him, "I've had much better." He faded, pleased with me.

Superman's phone rang the next morning, waking us up. It was his sister, calling about church. I wrinkled my nose and pretended to go back to sleep. I heard him speak about Mimi's (TM) Stuffed French Toast. I murmered, "Yes, I've had it, it's crazy unbelievable". But he didn't hear me. I already had ceased to exist.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson