I suppose I have reached the age where I can say: "I went back to my hometown, visited my high school friends...you know..." Though I feel like I should be older, have my hair cut into a tasteful bob, be driving a nice car, laugh, compliment so-and-so's pearls.
No, I am tastefully disheveled, wearing flannel, really nervous. To see my friends.
I smoke more cigarettes than I should, they disapprove, or, at least feign disapproval. I laugh lightly as they disapprove still frantically searching my bag for my lighter. As I light each once, I am focused very intently on the box, the surgeon general's warning written in German, something I have an annoying urge to show off each time - tapping obnoxiously at the large foreign print.
The conversation is,...jumpy I guess. His summer. Her summer. My summer. Her summer. My summer. Her summer. His summer. Snapshots of what they did. Familiar names, etc. We gossip a bit. Though I can't recall what about... the one crayon drawing in the dinner window is placed dramatically in the left hand corner, coffee stained spoon, upside-down ketchup bottle, my bag tipped over on the floor, one white waiter, mexican waiters hovering 3 booths behind us why?, lady with short grey hair sitting alone trying to attract attention (is she waiting for someone? is she escaping her god-awful children?), Ricky's dad sitting alone at the counter, that chocolate-chip cookie looks good, the kid putting his visor over his eyes, the waiter asked only if I wanted milk, not sugar, striped hoodie, all the boys in here are wearing white t-shirts, one girl with her parents, someone is looking at me, the left-over bacon on that plate should really be made into a face, lime-green shorts, no small children, is someone talking to me? Yes.
All at once there are too many people in the diner. I think its getting warm in here. Eating with their own respective people, silently looking around, guaging the scene. Someone dated someone for a week this summer, some boy hooked up with a boy, someone is staring at my shirt.
"How was your summer?"
"It was -"
"That's cool."
I am regailing my friends with stories from my summer. Stories that, though they seemed important at the time, don't feel like they've happened at all. I'm making it all up. I was just in bed with the comforter over my head escaping the sun... Nothing has happened, nothing at all. I want to make them laugh. I want to cooly express the proper emotions in the proper fashion. I think I will have a seconed cup of coffee. Do they charge for refills? Doesn't matter. Mother's cash is in my wallet. Was I in the middle of telling a story? The words are falling over themselves. Should I tell them that part? Look, I already am. I wonder if they throw away those cookies at the end of the night, or if it would be the same one if I came back 3 days from now? Where did my napkin go? Oh right, I was talking.
I guess we are taking photos now. That was clever to bring your camera. You can take pictures of this gathering, post them on the internet. You will never forget that you interrupted conversation so that you could take stage photographs, get people to take photos of you. What memories! Awww.
People are looking, the flashes are bouncing all around the dinner. Are the snickering? They are jealous. Clearly we are having fun. No, that was such a bad photo...erase it, puhlease! I don't know what I would rather be doing! (Beer, walking up/down Broadway, flailing a little, headphones, muussiiccc, alone) Okay, okay. We are going outside. To do what? To stand in the parking-lot of course.
Hahaha, I'm funny, he's funny, she's funny. Hug hug hug. Maybe I could go to Barnes & Noble tomorrow, purchase some DVDs? The streets in this town are deserted. People are wandering, talking over eachother. There is a pause in the conversation, I will fill it. We are all waiting for our turns to talk...
I am taking the 11:38 bus home. I am the only female. I am the only white person. I am listening to Nirvana.
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