“I know how you feel. I get Pa-Jamus a lot. Nothing conjures quite as sexy an image as flannel sleepwear. Sometimes I get PJ too, which I think might be the name of one of the Little Rascals. Well you’re certainly creative, which is essential when introducing yourself. I definitely won’t forget your name if we meet again.” He says. I feel like he may have just given me a compliment but I don’t celebrate too early to err on the safe side.
“What is it that you do Pajamas?” I ask him, hoping that my little jest at his name comes off as cute and confident rather than annoyingly over familiar.
“I’m in publishing.” He smiles deviously and takes another sip of coffee. The look of utter self-satisfaction is rank all across his face. He knows exactly what he has just done to my psyche now that I’ve confessed my desire for a writing career and spouted bad poetry at him. I turn away and bite into my muffin again without delicately breaking off a piece because somehow I feel offended and I’m sure he as a good idea as to why. ‘He could be being honest,’ I think as I flip into a little daydream. I picture this man named Pajamas as a pair of long, plaid underwear with a buttoned-up ass burrowed away in an office pumping out books on sleepwear and undergarments. I chuckle.
“What sorts of things do you publish Pajamas?” I ask him, hoping that he says he works for a scientific journal or another rag that’s equally dull and removed from my own writing.