(From July 31, 2008)
So I'm having a cigarette outside the bar. That's where you have to have them now.
There is a couple sitting a few feet away from me. They are on a date. Don't ask me how I know. I'm an adult. That's how I know.
The guy speaks loudly and animatedly on his cell phone. He has slid his chair back and slouches ever-so casually in it. He is wearing distressed jeans, a rumpled white linen shirt and a black-and-white terry-cloth headband. On his left arm (and ONLY his left arm) almost to his elbow is a matching wrist band. I am certain that this is an extremely hip way of dressing somewhere. I don't know where that might be and I hope I'm never forced by either chance or cruel circumstance to go there.
The woman across from him sits stirring her drink. Not drinking it. No longer shooting impatient glances his way. She pokes it with her finger. She rolls it around in a circular motion on its base until a little spills out. She has put on a nice dress for this. She spent no small amount of time picking out her earrings. She isn't my type, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate that she put a little effort into herself tonight. And for the account of this dickbag.
What do I mean by "my type?"
For starters, my type would have left the minute he answered his phone.
If she would only stand up! If she would only stand up, grab his fucking iPhone and hurl it into the street! Down her drink! Better yet, down HIS drink! Kick him in the shin! Call him a cocksucker and get into the cab that has been idling on the corner waiting for fuck-knows-who for the last ten minutes.That I would cheer like a kid at a baseball game!
As the moments pass my sympathy for her turns to mild contempt. Not equal to what I feel for him, mind you. Just a, "Well, you're a grown woman for fucks-sake. If you're going to go along with this then who's the real clown in the pair?"
I should just watch the cars go by. Better that way.