At the 3:40 am, so I suppose it was this morning, I was standing in line to pay for my battery acid coffee and wondering why I always wait until the last moment to do everything, when a couple walked in a cut in front of me.
There’s this white hot feeling that comes over me when I’ve been wronged, even if it’s slight. Knowing instantly that this was not a battle worth fighting, I stood there and let the injustice wash over me and returned to considering the possibility of Chex Mix.
The woman looks back at me; she’s in a short black dress and her mascara is smudged (but only a little) and she’s got long black hair that probably looked very nice at the beginning of the night. She is very pretty in spite of herself. Her male companion, on the other hand, looks like Luis Guzmán in a fedora.
“Oh my gosh!” She exclaims and stumbles towards me. “Were you in line?” she touches my arm with a level of sincerity that I am uncomfortable with inside of a convenience store. I nod stiffly and she apologizes profusely. I’m staring at my feet.
They get behind me, but are standing very close, and we wait as a huddled mass as the taxi driver at the counter picks out the best hot dog. The couple starts to talk, or at least the woman does, and they’re so close I feel like it would have been perfectly acceptable for me to chime in. Each of her sentences could have easily been followed by me saying, “Yes, you are.”
“I don’t usually do this, I’m not this kind of girl,” her slur was only slight; completely forgivable on the weekend, but a bit much for Tuesday morning. “I’m not the kind of girl who just takes a guy home.”
I’m going to pause there, because I want to make it clear that I don’t think there is anything wrong with this behavior. I’m not passing judgment on her for taking home Some Guy or being a little sloppy, we’ve all been there. I think my problem is more with the declarative statements that she’s making that directly conflict with her current situation. You are that type of girl, right here, right now in this 7-11 on Sunset. Fucking own it.
“I don’t- I don’t think you’re that type either. I could tell in the club. we had a connection, right?”
Ugh. I open Luis Guzmán’s IMDB page, that guy has been in everything, including a short entitled, “I Kicked Luis Guzman in the Face.”
The taxi driver pays for his hot dog and he has this euphoric look on his face that I was almost jealous of. I walk up to the counter and set down my coffee, the clerk and I look at each other with out bothering to do anything polite with our faces. I take pride in being quick in line and I’ve paid before the woman behind me has finished the sentence, “I think this could really be the start of something.”
I walk out the door and am greeted by the cabbie sitting on the hood of his car, joyfully devouring his one true love. Melancholy overtook me, and I couldn’t help but think how much better off we’d all be if we’d just go home and go to sleep.
Damn, this is good. Makes me think of Los Angeles two years ago, and how even now I go back and forth between usually feeling the way this writer does but sometimes just wanting to be taken home by a girl I just met.