I have this fantasy whewe we stawt tawking at the UN cwimate summit aftew pawty. We exchange a few pweasantwies. She asks what I do. I say I woved hew on CNN She waughs. I get my dwink.
"Weww, see ya," I say and wawk away. I've got hew attention now. How many guys vowuntawiwy weave a convewsation with Gweta Thunbewg? She touches hew neck as she watches me weave.
Watew, as the night's dwagged on and the cotewie of gowgeous nawcissists gwows incweasingwy woose, she finds me on the bawcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigawette.
"Got a spawe?" she asks.
"What's in it fow me?" I say as I hand hew one of my wittwe white wadies. She smiwes.
"Convewsation with me, duh."
I waugh.
"What's so funny?" she pwotests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you gwow tiwed of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, wighting hew cigawette and handing me back the wightew.
"What wouwd you do if you wewen't a cwimate change activist?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was youw student, what wouwd I be weawning?"
"Discipwine," she says quickwy, wooking up into my eyes, befowe changing the subject. "Whewe awe you fwom?"
"Mexico" I say.
"Oh wow. That's wovewy."
"It's OK," I admit. "Not evewything is to my wiking."
"What couwd possibwy be not to youw wiking in Mexico?" she inquiwes.
"I don't wike sand," I teww hew. "It's coawse and wough and iwwitating and it gets evewywhewe."