It's Like That

Polite Good-byes

One by One

The Ardent Summer Glow

The Closest I'll Come.

What Might be Happening.

This is the part where something was supposed to happen. Something convincingly carnal. He's supposed to step towards me and set his hands on the merchandise and let out the long, pleased breath. He's supposed to palpate my shoulder the way most men always think women enjoy. He's supposed to brush my hair back and press his mouth against my ear and murmur something spine chilling that I'd later find cheesy. 

But he doesn't make his move. Instead, he stares at the glow of decorative lights outlining the tree line. For a second I think I might be losing him. Then he turns to me and looks directly at me and I can feel the jolt of it all, this strange little half concession to what might be happening here.

We were there for what felt like a very long time, maybe five minutes. But you've never had minutes like these. We stared into each other. Mostly you wait for a second or two, a half second maybe. And then you spend your entire life trying to describe that moment. To regain the perspective. We spent our seconds digesting the evening. 

Jenny

Jenny worked at a hole in the wall market, with a small parking lot filled with rusted carts that required tetanus shots after use. The shelves were dominated by generic brands with lettering that swung sweetly off-key.

She was the very definition of unfriendly. Not rude, which would imply there was a kind of tired grudge against fate she was holding onto. Just unfriendly, as in not interested in being my friend, or friends with anyone, anywhere for that matter. Not interested in my day, or witty banter. Not interested in what I was doing today, or if my face was on fire. Just there at the register with her name tag reading, Jenny.

What I liked second best about Jenny was that she watched everything, every movement in the store without ever swiveling her small body. She knew all of your complaints before you could complain and was tired of your voice before you even spoke. She had truly mastered the art of detachment .

And what I liked third best about this girl was her hard disposition and stark refusal to prettify the situation, to follow the jovial slogans of our age, with their concealed messages of salesmanship.She was a woman immune to adorable children or well rehearsed jokes. A woman with her mood permanently set to distant. Generous only in competence.

There I was, me and my grape soda and oatmeal, an odd pairing I must agree, and my hi energy friendly face. Jenny with her looks of disdain through her black trimmed glasses. Her hair neatly pulled back.

"What does a termite eat for breakfast?" I said.

She stared at me expressionless, waiting for the punchline. "Oak-meal" I said, presenting my boxed instant oatmeal.

She gave me a look as if she had just seen me naked and was greatly disappointed, rung up my items and collected the fee. And then it happened, and this was what I liked best of all. Among all of Jenny's terrific personality traits. It was when something unusual, honest and amusing happened, how against every ounce of her better judgment, despite every muscle in her body desperately trying to fight it, she smiled.