Apparently Yukiko means Snow in Japanese—

Folks, I’m back on the scene, the ESL scene that is. So all my plans fell through this evening as planned and I decided to take a walk on the wild albeit random and terrifying side. I met up with her on Christopher street and we went to find a place to grab a drink. The idea was for something quiet, kinda mellow like, where conversation could flow and sparks could fly. Truth be told, I randomly picked a great spot. The Grey Dog is a great little café right off of Sixth Ave. where magic could be beheld.

Unfortunately for me that wasn’t the case. The situation was such: it is no small secret that I have a fetish for words, especially the spoken type. I like to talk. The smaller secret, but not so small, is that my white guilt lends itself nicely to the mirage of hope that I can one day become an international playboy, the kind who transcends continents, time, and space. Reality however is a bitch.

We chatted. More appropriately I spoke, inquired and she politely laughed. I honestly think she had a good time. My difficulty though was more tangible, language at times is a spoken art—this classically trained pianist didn’t possess it. She was however quite fond of the one thing she knew. I like that, but not enough to pursue it. One thing is not enough; I’m complex and the fairer sex should be too—at least for me.