"You fell asleep?"
I ran into a girl today whom I’d used to know pretty well. She graduated a year ahead of me and didn’t get into any college because she’d spent high school perfecting her blowjob technique. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I was on my way out of Barnes and Noble as she was coming in. I don’t know what she was doing there, because it’s a bookstore. But maybe she had to pick up an issue of Seventeen or something.
“OH MY G0D! HEY!” She greeted me with the typical all-American girl salutation and a giant hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”
I remember the last time I saw her well actually. Her graduation night. We hugged, she cried, pictures were taken. “I swear,” I remember her telling me through tears, “this time next year, you’ll be crying when you hug me, too.”
Right.
“I know!” I matched her enthusiasm 110 percent. “How have you been?”
She talked a little, mindless chatter really about this and that and I think maybe, of her pet goldfish, and I found myself doing a lot of nodding and tuning out. The more I spoke to her, the more I remembered how stupid she was. When she was done rambling, fearing the evil awkward silence, I asked, “how’s school?” because, being who I am, and how I’ve grown up, I just assume that if you’re under 24, you’re in a school of some kind at least. She got quiet and avoided eye contact, “Oh, heh,” she pretended to be interested in a Hilary Duff CD on the rack, inspecting the sticker claiming it was worth the seventeen dollars to purchase it when we all knew we could just grab it off of Limewire in about 20 seconds for free. “I’m not really, like, going to school right now.”
“Oh,” I say, because, well, what do you stay to that?
“Yeah…” she laughs a very sad laugh. “I’m just working! A lot!”
“Where?” I am hoping it’s some sort of office job or that she’s Wyclef Jean’s next protégé and we just don’t know it yet.
“Wal-Greens. I’m the night manager now.”
“Aw! That’s really great!” I lie. “Do you get to wear a smock?” I thought the question would lighten the mood.
“Yeah!” suddenly she’s reassured that maybe her life isn’t shit since she gets to wear a smock with her name on it. “Where do you work?”
I think carefully about how to answer this. Because, I mean, technically, I don’t work, but I have a job- thing.
“I, ah, I write for a magazine. It’s cool, I guess.” I felt bad saying that almost like I shouldn’t be allowed to be a Carrie Bradshaw of sorts when she fucked up and ended up The Good Girl.
She says, ”Wow” like she might even mean it. “Wow, that’s really great.”
“Yeah,” I say, “Thanks.”
The awkward silence came then, and we both realized we’d probably never see each other again even though I introduced her to her fiancé. Yes. Fiancé. I heard that part of the conversation. She hugs me one last time and tells me to stay cool. “I mean it!” She says, as she slides through the double doors, “’Cause you’ve always been one very interesting woman. And I want to read all about you in some magazine one day.”
“Hopefully the one I’m editor of!” I shout back.
Quote of the day:
Stefi: "That woman looks like a man!"
Mom: "She is a man."
- me, mistaking a man as a woman.
“OH MY G0D! HEY!” She greeted me with the typical all-American girl salutation and a giant hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”
I remember the last time I saw her well actually. Her graduation night. We hugged, she cried, pictures were taken. “I swear,” I remember her telling me through tears, “this time next year, you’ll be crying when you hug me, too.”
Right.
“I know!” I matched her enthusiasm 110 percent. “How have you been?”
She talked a little, mindless chatter really about this and that and I think maybe, of her pet goldfish, and I found myself doing a lot of nodding and tuning out. The more I spoke to her, the more I remembered how stupid she was. When she was done rambling, fearing the evil awkward silence, I asked, “how’s school?” because, being who I am, and how I’ve grown up, I just assume that if you’re under 24, you’re in a school of some kind at least. She got quiet and avoided eye contact, “Oh, heh,” she pretended to be interested in a Hilary Duff CD on the rack, inspecting the sticker claiming it was worth the seventeen dollars to purchase it when we all knew we could just grab it off of Limewire in about 20 seconds for free. “I’m not really, like, going to school right now.”
“Oh,” I say, because, well, what do you stay to that?
“Yeah…” she laughs a very sad laugh. “I’m just working! A lot!”
“Where?” I am hoping it’s some sort of office job or that she’s Wyclef Jean’s next protégé and we just don’t know it yet.
“Wal-Greens. I’m the night manager now.”
“Aw! That’s really great!” I lie. “Do you get to wear a smock?” I thought the question would lighten the mood.
“Yeah!” suddenly she’s reassured that maybe her life isn’t shit since she gets to wear a smock with her name on it. “Where do you work?”
I think carefully about how to answer this. Because, I mean, technically, I don’t work, but I have a job- thing.
“I, ah, I write for a magazine. It’s cool, I guess.” I felt bad saying that almost like I shouldn’t be allowed to be a Carrie Bradshaw of sorts when she fucked up and ended up The Good Girl.
She says, ”Wow” like she might even mean it. “Wow, that’s really great.”
“Yeah,” I say, “Thanks.”
The awkward silence came then, and we both realized we’d probably never see each other again even though I introduced her to her fiancé. Yes. Fiancé. I heard that part of the conversation. She hugs me one last time and tells me to stay cool. “I mean it!” She says, as she slides through the double doors, “’Cause you’ve always been one very interesting woman. And I want to read all about you in some magazine one day.”
“Hopefully the one I’m editor of!” I shout back.
Quote of the day:
Stefi: "That woman looks like a man!"
Mom: "She is a man."
- me, mistaking a man as a woman.
