No Cubic Zirconium for Chloe!

After a recent, all to brief, respite away and upon my return to the more familiar environs of home, and following the surgical procedure to alleviate the rather embarrassing situation necessitating the need for removal of a bit of door-opening hardware from my nether regions, and after the somewhat equally less than pleasant chore of removing and disposing of the various power-blackout-melted cartons of Rocky Road and congealed-lobster-bisque-coated Tupperware left by my portly apartment sitter, I was informed by my dear friend Chloe that she had important news which must be imparted to me at once. We met at her favorite Chelsea restaurant, where, after receiving the kind assistance of our waiter in acquiring some extra cushioning in my chair seat, I immediately ascertained the reason for her excitement, and the purpose of our convocation, to wit, a small band of paler-than-the-rest skin color on her left hand’s third finger.
“I see in my absence you have acquired a bit of a tan line on your finger”, I said, impressing her as always with my superior powers of observation and perception.
“You are right, as you so often are”, she replied.
She produced from her handbag a small box, which she opened with considerable flourish, declaring, “and this is what caused it!”
She removed the box’s sparkling ornament, placing it onto the comfortable residence of her finger. Now her entire left hand seemed to glow with the refracted light of a diamond weighted with carats of a number that even I dared not to guess!
“How long have you been engaged?” I asked, attempting as best I could manage to hide my incredulity, for Chloe had always made clear her rather demanding criteria for any potential manhood to enter her sphere of interest.
Her requirements were simple enough; he must be:
1. “Cute”
2. Of some considerable means
3. Witty
4. Taller than her own 5 ft 7 in frame
5. Not a follower of the Sporting interests
6. “Just this side of gay”
This last condition, and its enunciation, was of the greatest interest and amusement to her friends, as its meaning could be considered ambiguous by some. I understood it clearly, of course. No admirer of the Frat Boy species, she expected any man on whose arm she may present herself to be an avid follower of culture and to have impeccable taste in cuisine and couture. No time or patience for “projects” has Chloe, to be sure! Potential suitors, and here is where the uninitiated may find the most confusion in item number 6, must be aggressively heterosexual only in matters of the concupiscent nature, understandable given Chloe’s own proclivities.
I immediately insisted on meeting this remarkable creature at once! But of course Chloe, being no amateur in the theater of everyday drama, had anticipated such a demand, and declared her young paramour would very shortly be joining us at this very table!
Chloe’s young man entered the restaurant and strolled directly to our table without the slightest hesitation or searching look, as if he was drawn to Chloe’s presence by some unseen magnetic pulse. At first glance he certainly met the first of her requirements, and only time would tell if he came within olfactory’s function of the others.
After the obligatory introductions and niceties, I began to probe the fellow’s personality, discovering a few interesting nuggets of information. He did indeed come from a background of some wealth, nouveau riche though it may have been, since his family had profited from the rise of the “Bonsai Kitten” craze in Europe. They had not originated the interest in this practice, only exploited its rising popularity on the Continent, selling Bonsai paraphernalia from an underground warehouse in France. Whether or not they provided the kitties themselves I could not ascertain. More information about the subject may be found here:
http://www.bonsaikitten.com/
The oddity of this connection was reinforced by the young man’s recitation of some rather bizarre theories on human behavior. One thesis proposed that it was possible to conclude Adolph Hitler was at heart an unhappy man, based on the downward sloping line formed on his forehead by his hair. I would suggest that his activities were evidence enough of a lack of cheer, but who can say for sure? Perhaps hairstyles are an outward indication of the heart’s inclination. Since that wicked fellow is said to have had an exceptionally strong will, we may suppose his notorious mustache functioned as an emphatic period to the exclamation point formed by his nose. What this theory says about others of the dictatorial persuasion lacking such hirsuteful blessings, the late Uday Hussein, for example, I will leave to its practitioners.
The young man also practiced a strange argot which, in answer to Chloe’s inquiry as to the quality of her inamorato’s day, included this phrase:
“Everything is hunky midori ito!”
These sorts of eccentricities are to be expected, I suppose, so I joined Chloe’s other friends in wishing the best for this liaison. However, the dinner’s end brought yet another of this suitor’s somewhat alarming personality quirks to the fore. For dessert he had ordered the restaurant’s specialty, a flaming chocolate sorbet. The waiter returned to our table expressing his deepest regret, for the last example of that delicacy just moments before had been ordered by another diner. Our guest’s disappointment was handled with aplomb, at least until that very dessert item was presented with considerable fanfare to an imperious older woman seated alone at the table next to our own. As we rose to leave, Chloe was greatly amused, and I was somewhat nonplussed, to hear the young man say to the dessert-devouring dowager,
“Enjoy the last sorbet, Bee-yotch!”