sunset heelavard

Afternoon coffee with the Perfect Fit.
She is saying: "You really blew it with your blog. It was just starting to get popular. The lefties and the journos were reading it again. You had a chance of making some money from the syndication offer. But oh no. You had to save the world from evil Muslims. You couldn't leave well enough alone. Now no one is reading you. They all think you're a psycho."
"President Ahmadinejad and the Black Jackets still read me," I murmured innocently.
The Perfect Fit scowled.
"The Jihadi demographic is not going to keep you in business or preserve your literary reputation," she expostulated firmly. "I don't think your poems are ever going to be taught in universities in the Islamic Republic of Iran, do you? You need a few fans who aren't trying to kill you. But you've driven all those away."
I savoured her analysis briefly.
"Lawyers for the Johnston Press still drop by," I mused delicately.
"Scum don't count," she shot back incisively.
I am a man of simple pleasures and I thought I could steer this conversation somewhere positive.
"So how popular do you think the blog was?" I ventured subtly.
"Everyone I know was reading it," she replied bluntly.
"Yeah but they all know me," I opined reasonably.
"People who didn't know you were reading it too," she insisted de rigeurly.
There was a pause while we both adjusted our adverbs.
"Ah it wasn't that popular," sez I modestly.
Her eyes widened.
There was fondness in them and bemusement in equal measure.
"Really Heelers you've no idea," she said. "You were genuinely getting big there, right before you blew it."
There was a pulse in the universe.
I leaned across the table.
For a moment, in the half light of the cafe my normally rugged features seemed to have taken on the lineaments of a 1920's matinee idol.
"I'm still big," I proclaimed fiercely. "It's the internet got small."