Another perfect stranger comes crashing into my home, boisterous and loud. A buff Italian man who has a little ponytail. He’s here to fix up the piano and he doesn’t waste a second. While speaking he’s sticking newspapers to the floor. He glues all his words together and they come out of his mouth as a string of garble. It’s hard to tell where the commas are or full stops. Then there’s this thick accent I have to bight my way through. It forces me to listen though, and to look at him. Maybe I should try that sometime myself, speak inaudibly so people have to listen. All his words seem entirely relevant, as if he has been sent to me by some force. And yes, his uncalled for advice is cliché, but so is all possible therapy or self-help.
He also states that he expects a lot from a potential wife because he has so much to give. Excuse me? Yes, he says, I have so incredibly much to give. This is another thing I might consider trying for a change: telling everyone how great I am. Just to see what happens.
And then he goes on and on about energy. Make sure the energy is right in everything you do.
I leave him to his work sipping my way too strong coffee, wondering how I’m going to make it through the day after a night of only five hours sleep and more alcohol than was really necessary. Energy? Maybe not today.
I consider taking everything this stranger says more seriously than any shrink or clairvoyant has to say. But as I myself leave the house and tell hem to just close the door behind him, he mumbles: if you have a nice single friend that is looking for someone like me, could you let me know?