Girl from Ipanema

August 8, 2001

so, it’s sometime after 1am and we’re outside smoking and drinking. well, the boys are; i’m just stealing sips here and there. the door is cracked open two inches, not a lot, but it’s enough and you can hear the bossanova seeping out to the patio. the percussion is live from my living room, tamborines and egg shakers and castanets. rah-tat-tat. shuka-shuka-shuka-shuka.

(earlier, we shook and rattled to that stan getz song, the good one, i can’t remember what it’s called. i closed my eyes and bobbed my head lightly.)

we talk about pretension and irony and self-esteem and giant robots and swim trunks. i think i hear someone in the bushes, but we decide it’s probably just an opossum. i know my neighbors can hear us and i am dreading seeing them in the morning, but i can’t bother to care. it’s summer, and pete’s on vacation, and i just met him tonight but it’s good enough for me.


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