Clay Boss

I used to pass by this artsy cafe on my way to a construction site I was working. I saw the artsy people with their gadgets and lattes and philosophical discourse and I thought to myself “Vlad, people like that would never associate with the likes of you,” and then immediately afterwards: “But they are posers and gasbags anyway, so who gives a doodle, right?”

But all that thinking changed when I noticed The Blonde. Truly, she must have been The Most Beautiful Woman In The World, all caps, and I fell in love. It was a silly emotion, based on nothing else than looks, but I started building on that and adding to her image all the sweetest qualities a person can have. I tried to tell myself not to do that because I was just falling in love with the image of her and would be disappointed when I finally met her. But something was telling me I would never get to meet her, so it was alright.

Until finally one day, I woke up with a plan. Mind you, it took me several days to muster the courage and all the while the plan was incubating, until finally I decided to go with it. Happiness or humiliation, life or death, it did not matter to me. I had to do it.

I went to one of those one dollar stores and got myself a pair of tight jeans, and a bunch or ironic t-shirts, to make myself look like one of those artsy types. I used my work jacket, it was old and worn, so it went well with the disguise. On my day off, I entered the cafe and walked up to the girl.

When she raised her head, the light got in her eye, so she lifted her hand to shield herself and frowned a little, which made her look as if she was smiling. I noticed she was reading a book with the strangest title: “Clay Boss.”

“Hello, my name is Vlad, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She said no at first, but finally she agreed, and that is how it started. Years later, I sometimes think of those strange days and the girl I met in the cafe. I loved her and she loved me, and then we hated each other, but I never asked her about the book. What did the title mean?

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