… I decide I’ve lingered on the
couch long enough. Despite my aching head and general languor, I realize I need to get out
into the world. I head into my room and grab the closest articles of clothing,
opting for casual and comfort over fashion and style… a concept nearly
nonexistent in the city of angels. Dressed and ready to go, I grab a couple of
pens and my little black Moleskine notebook and step outside. Turn the key,
lock the door, and I’m off to my car.
Heading
east on Sunset Boulevard, I find myself driving leisurely… watching the
abandoned streets of early morning Los Angeles. For a city that makes claim to
a nonstop lifestyle and inexhaustible culture, LA sure struggles with early
hours on a weekend. But it’s really no surprise: a people as narcissistic as
these denizens need their beauty sleep! Content to have the iconic road to
myself, I hit play on my stereo and tap my fingers on the steering wheel along
to the haunting riffs of Lightning Slim.
I
drive for about twenty minutes, the standard timeframe of driving in LA, and
wind up in Los Feliz. The street is empty, abundant with parking spaces, which
I give immediate thanks for. After locking my car, I quickly sprint across
Vermont Avenue and approach my destination. It is a low-leveled building, oddly
painted lime green and electric pumpkin orange, with circular metal tables
arranged around its exterior: the marquee above the front door says ‘Fred 62’
in 1960’s-esque science fiction font. Fred 62… the best semblance of a diner in
Los Angeles and a good place to lay low and recover on a Saturday morning.
I
walk in, my Converse scuffling against the black Formica floor, and I’m
bombarded by the magnificent aroma of breakfast: eggs frying and scrambling,
coffee slowly gathering in the percolator, bacon and sausage sizzling like an
inmate in the electric chair, and toast slowly burning. Ahhh… breakfast, the
best part of mornings.
“Back
again,” says a familiar waitress from behind the counter. She’s busy serving a
slice of key-lime pie to an old man, just like every other Saturday I’ve been
there. She is young and beautiful and still full of verve and naivety. Her
flaxen hair is bundled up into an uncontrollable mass atop her head and her cobalt
eyes, though still vaguely glazed over from sleep deprivation, betray an
enthusiasm and cheerfulness.
“I’m
a creature of habit,” I reply with my typical mediocre shrug.
“You
don’t say,” she replies with a smile. “I’ve got some bad news for you though.
Your usual booth is taken.”
“Go
figure.” I peek my head into the other room and survey my favorite booth. A
couple, clearly tourists from some European destination, have set up shop in my
spot. What’s worse is that they’re acting the part of clichéd tourists: the
wife is holding a piece of pancake up on her fork, knife in the other hand, as
she poses for a photograph. Why in the
name of Bobby Orr are they taking pictures of eating, I ponder. What
depraved, tyrant-controlled nation do they hail from that drives them to
capture eating pancakes with a camera? Utterly baffling. I step back into the
main room, shaking my head.
“Taking
pictures again,” the waitress asked, her thin eyebrows rising like question
marks.
“Yeah…
shots of them eating.”
“I
guess some people want to remember every detail of their vacations.”
“No
kidding,” I ask, walking around the pie case and take a seat at the counter. As
I sit, the waitress arrives with a cup of coffee and plants it down in front of
me.
“The
usual,” she asks, hands on her hips and head tilted to the side.
“You
know it.”
“Cool.
Let me know if you need anything.” She smiles, genuine cheerfulness seeping
from her crinkled features, before disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my
hands around the ceramic mug, feeling the heat radiating from within; the
bittersweet aroma is like perfume. I take a tentative sip then open my notebook
to the ribbon marker: the pages are littered with ink scratches… a nearly
indecipherable maze of gibberish and nonsense. I take another sip of coffee and
start trying to make sense of it all…
…”Are
you sure it’s cool for us to show up,” I asked as I turned off of La Brea into
some neighborhood in Mid City. Louie was in the passenger seat, pouring rum
from a Bacardi hipflask into a half empty Gatorade bottle.
“Of
course,” he replied nonchalantly. “It’s a house party, and I know one of the
hosts.”
“Were
you invited?”
“Well…
not exactly,” Louie replied, cocking his head. “But he told me about it. Hell,
he asked me for a few numbers of mutual friends! So that’s essentially an
invite.”
“That
doesn’t make any sense,” I replied wryly. “Didn’t you ever seen that episode of
Seinfeld?”
“Just
saying ‘that episode of Seinfeld’
isn’t very specific, Strat. Unlike you, most people don’t have every episode
memorizes and thus, can’t follow your reference.”
“Whatever.
Point is, I don’t think it’s cool to just show up unannounced. Especially
toting a friend.”
“You
worry too much,” replied Louie with a grin.
“What’s
to worry about? Showing up at some random party with a psychotic Canadian who
is not even invited? Yeah… perfect.”
“Oh
don’t worry. Most people there will probably be Canadian.”
“Great,”
I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to be surrounded by Montreal fans all
night. Where is my incentive to even show?’
“I
don’t expect there to be many Montrealers,” Louie countered. He closed the lid
of the Gatorade bottle and gave it a quick, vigorous shake. “I think most of
them are from British Colombia.”
“God
help me,” I gasped as I parked the car. Across the street, a bacchanalian horde
was flowing in and out of a single-story house and the uninspired, auto-tuned
music of today was blasting at decibels that would have put Noreaga at a loss
for words. “I’m going into a room full of Canucks fans. You goddamn sociopath.
Do you know how much I hate the Canucks and, by affiliation, their belligerent
fans?”
“Yes,”
Louie answered, a malevolent expression of hilarity on his face. “Should be interesting,
no?”…
…”Need
a warm up?” I look up, jarred from my introspective odyssey. The waitress is
standing before me, coffee pot hovering above my mug, and she’s smiling yet
again.
“Why
not,” I shrug. I close my notebook and lean back.
“Mind
if I ask you a question,” she asks as she pours the dark brown elixir.
“Shoot.”
“What’s
with the notebook? You come in pretty much the same time every weekend, sit by
yourself, and have your nose buried in that little black book.”
“True,”
I reply after she goes silent.
“So
what are you doing? Are you a writer or something? Am I watching the next great
American novel being written before my very eyes?”
“Hardly,”
I answer, laughing slightly. “No… this is just a way for me to keep track of
things. I get distracted easily and tend to forget details, so I jot them down.
That way I can look back on the past with a fair amount of ease. When I can actually
read my handwriting, that is. Because when I’m out socially or such… it tends
to look like chicken scratch.”
“I
guess that makes sense,” she replies. She angles her head, clearly trying to
get a read on my sincerity. “Alright… you write things down to remember them.
But what’s the importance of remembering? I mean, you’ll recall major events,
right? What is so important about the details?”
“For
me… it’s the seemingly innocuous details that matter most,” I say. I grin,
amused at my apparent sanctimony. “Everyone can give a synopsis. But to truly
tell a story, you gotta include the details!”
“So
you are writing, then?” The look on her face is one of satisfied vindication.
“Guilty
as charged,” I reply, shrugging once more. I find myself doing that more and
more as of late. Either it’s a symptom of growing apathy or a general sense of
nonchalance: I still can’t decide which it is.
“How
exciting,” she retorts dryly, playfully. She looks around the room then turns
her attention back to me. “To be continued.” The waitress winked and sauntered
off, back to her duties. I chuckle then take a sip of coffee and delve back
into the scribbled world…
…
Sure enough, our entry to the party was an unexpected and, to a certain degree,
an unappreciated intrusion. Instead of a straight up house party, we had
crashed an unofficial USC party, pregaming before the Trojans hosted a division
rival the following afternoon. Clearly out of place in business casual threads,
we wove our way through a thicket of crimson and gold bodies… making our way
into the house and towards the kitchen.
“This
is a goddamn college party,” I growled to Louie as I followed, carrying a case
of Corona. “Half these people look like they’re under twenty!”
“Relax,”
Louie confidently replied over his shoulder. “Like you didn’t drink underage?
And besides… college kids know how to party.”
“Yeah,
because their bodies have yet to feel the mileage and they haven’t the
slightest semblance of responsibility or consequence.”
“And
you do?”
“Point
taken,” I admitted after a moment’s consideration. “Fine, we might still be
animals, but at least we know how to handle our drink.”
“What
do you mean?” At that exact moment, as we were entering the kitchen, a
thunderous crash came from an unseen room: the unmistakable shriek of breaking
glass, the groan of splintered wood, and the general hush that immediately
follows a catastrophe. The silent vigil lasted a mere second before the clamor
restarted.
“Connor,”
I heard Louie call across the kitchen. A tall, gangly young man with disheveled
black hair looked around before noticing Louie. He was shirtless, with his
upper body painted half yellow gold, half crimson.
“Christ,”
I muttered. “It’s like I’m back in upstate New York.”
“Can
it you lout,” Louie countered. The host-apparent navigated the corridors of
people and greeted us as we deposited our alcoholic loot on the kitchen
counter.
“Louie,”
he replied… a mixture of cordiality and surprise in his voice. “Holy shit, it’s
been a long time man.” He raised his fist, which Louie promptly bumped.
“No
kidding, Connor. Last time I saw you was when Darrel came to visit.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah,”
Louie replied, nodding solemnly. He glanced at me and shook his head abruptly.
“Where are my manner? Connor… this is my friend Stratton. Strat, Connor.
Connor’s brother Darrel was my roommate at university.”
“Ahh,
nice to meet ya,” I gruffly said, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.
“So…,”
said Connor, drawing out the vowel. “What
are… well, what are you doing here, Louie?”
“I
saw on Facebook you were having a party, so I decided to drop by and say hello!
And as I was busy killing martinis with my associate here, it would have been
rude not to include him.”
Despite
the deafening hip-hop/house music blasting from a nearby room and the
vociferous conversation throughout the house, an awkward silence lingered
amongst the three of us for a moment: I lowered my head and shook it in
disbelief, Louie maintained a plucky grin and expectantly perched eyebrows, and
Connor merely looked back and forth at us.
“Uh,
ohh…” stammered Connor, clearly at a loss.
“Don’t
worry,” Louie cut in, assuring. “We come bearing gifts!” He then proudly
displayed the case of beer and the bottle of tequila he’d been carrying.
“Okay,”
Connor replied, nodding his approval. Clearly we met his price of admission.
“Right on. Grab a drink and make yourselves at home.”
“Don’t
mind if I do,” Louie said with a sly smile and nod.
“Ah
shit,” I said to myself…
…”And
here you go,” the waitress says, lowering a plate laden with food to my left.
She then produces a fork and knife, expertly wrapped in a napkin, and sets it
beside the dish. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Writer?”
“I
think that’s it,” I reply, closing my book and moving it aside. I meet her
eyes, those ravenous orbs of cerulean, and hold the gaze. She reverts to a
familiar mannerism, cocking her head to the side and ever so slightly squinting
her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak but notices a customer waving at the
other end of the restaurant. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says,
smiling, before heading off.
I
pull the plate closer to me, unfold the napkin, and open my book and lay it
beside the dish. As I start to cut into the perfectly scrambled eggs, I begin
reading again…
…Hours
had passed. What had started off as an odd, semi-violent night quickly devolved
into sheer anarchy… the likes of which only stampeding animals ought be capable
of. In an act of shockingly responsible decision-making, I managed to step back
from the fray and nurse a single beer. I was the driver, after all, and there
is nothing more terrifying than the random sobriety checkpoints throughout Los
Angeles on a Friday night. So, I played the part of the narrator and watched in
reserved horror as the collegiate youths and future forerunners delved deeper
into madness. And there, smack dab in the eye of the hurricane, was Louie.
With
baited breath I watched as he moved through the house like a tidal wave… some
primordial force of nature beyond logic and comprehension. Immediately after
speaking with Connor he inundated himself with tequila shots, inviting a
contingent of scantily clad coeds to partake.
“Let’s
go do a slip and slide,” he howled maniacally after a round of shots.
“I
don’t think there’s one,” a blonde cheerleader type replied after biting a lime
wedge. Her eyes were watery from the shot, clearly indicating she was still
unaccustomed to the hard stuff. Which, as it were, made me question her age
even more.
“Screw
it,” Louie replied. He grabbed the bottle of tequila and took a long pull
before slamming it back down on the countertop. “We’ll make our own! Allons!”
Grabbing the bottle once more, he sprinted towards the nearest exit… followed
by a group of giggling college girls. I shook my head, unable to hold in
laughter, then found an open arm chair and slouched down into it. I pulled my
notebook from my back pocket, flipped open the cover, and began scribbling
away.
An
indeterminate period of time passed as I continued to pen down my thoughts,
observations, sensations, and notable quotations of the people around me. The
unrelenting joviality and festivity throughout the building reminded me of
times long past… memories I avoid recalling due to their pyrrhic fondness.
Winter nights in New York City… hurrying up Greenwich Avenue towards 8th
to join the boys at Justin’s. It brought to mind sitting on the fire escape
with Glen and Neil and a bottle of whiskey… watching their cigarette butts fall
to the ground like immolated angels. Summer afternoons, perched at a table
outside the Four Faced Liar… talking tunes over beers with John Paul and
watching the sun sink behind the pre-war neighborhood of the West Village. Late
night pool games at the Fat Cat, burgers and house beers at the Corner Bistro,
dinner partiers with Geordie and Leslie and the Syracuse cabal. Lounging in the
Washington Square Park fountain on an idyllic spring day, sprawled beside the
Hudson during summer’s oppressive presence, the scent of burning wood and feel
of sawdust beneath foot in winter at Molly’s. In the cheerfulness and ignorance
of these younger folk… I’m reminded of a time I cling to with each breath.
“Excuse
me.” I looked up, startled, and found myself staring at a petite girl with hair
the color of glowing embers, cynical jade eyes, and a general disposition that
doesn’t seem suited to the collective ra-ra mentality of the pack.
“Hmmm,”
I murmured, still caught half on the page.
“What
are you supposed to be, some sort of chaperone?”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“The
get up,” the red headed vixen retorted. “You look like you’re here making sure
nobody dies. That or you’re a Jehovah’s witness or some shit like that.”
“Afraid
not,” I replied, snapping my book shut and standing. I noticed that, despite
her aggressive personality, she was tiny. Her lithe shoulders partially covered
by a red, sleeveless t-shirt bearing a faded image of Jimmy Hendrix and her
intoxicatingly sleek legs were obscured by skin-tight black jeans. “No, I’m
here pretty much by mistake.”
“Pretty
much by mistake,” she asked, crossing her arms and gave me a defiantly
quizzical look. “Explain how that works.”
“Let’s
just say I was brought here by a friend under false pretenses. Actually, make
that obstructed pretenses.”
“And
so instead of mingling, you go all wallflower and write poetry or something
like that?”
“Not
particularly,” I protested meekly, “but in that’s close enough to stick.” I
took the final sip of my beer, now warm and acidic tasting. I swirled the
remaining foam idly.
“Wow,
aren’t you the master of social etiquette,” she said after a moment’s pause.
“Forgive me for interrupting your genius!”
“You’re
forgiven,” I replied with a shrug. She cracked, smiling ever so slightly. “It’s
nothing personal. It’s just been a while since I’ve been to a college party,
and my buddy conned me into coming after we got off work.”
“So
you’re an old person crashing a college party,” she said wryly. “Eew.”
“Hey…
I’m just the driver. But I have to say… you’re one to criticize my sense of
socializing. You willingly hit the sidelines and approached me. Also, you don’t
seem like one for this kind of party.”
“Why,
because I’m not a platinum blonde and… like, you know, um, ditzy?”
“Well
that and the lack of school colors gave you away,” I answered with a shrug.
“You’ve
got me,” she said, throwing her hands up. “I’m basically in the same boat. My
roommate is screwing one of the guys who lives here, and she talked me into
coming. Frankly I’d rather have snuck into some shit hole bar and drank
peacefully.”
“I
remember those days,” I replied with a slight chuckle.
“The
golden years, huh?”
“In
a manner.” I went quiet, involuntarily recalling my own sordid entry into
adulthood.
“I’m
Juliette, by the way,” she abruptly said. “Figure if we’re going to talk this
long, you might as well know my name.”
“Point
taken,” I agreed, “and it’s a pleasure. I’m Stratton.”
“Stratton?
Wow… what are you, some fifth generation blue blood WASP from Connecticut?”
“Not
even close. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Don’t
mention it,” Juliette replied with a razorblade smile. “And what about your
friend? Where is he?”
As
if prompted, Louie ran back into the house at that instant. He was stripped
down to his boxers, which seemed to be the Canadian flag, and he was dripping
wet. His red necktie was now around his head as if it were an Apache headband,
and he had war paint drawn on his face in red and hot pink lipstick. He was
waving one of his shoes above his head by the laces.
“That’s
him,” I said, motioning by a nod of the head.
“Beware
the coming of la chasse-galerie,” he howled before charging into another room.
A moment later, his cheerleader train entered the house as well, half of them
stripped down to their bras and panties. They squealed with forbidden glee as
they followed the mad Canadian.
“He
certainly seems comfortable partaking in a college party,” Juliette said, her
cold demeanor broken for the first time.
“I
think he drank bleach as a kid.”
“That
would probably explain a few things. I’m just glad I don’t have to drive him
home. That’s going to be a messy car ride.”
“Probably
not,” I retorted. “He’s not doing that because he’s drunk. He’s just a raving
lunatic.”
“Oh,”
said Juliette, “that’s good.”
Before
either of us could speak again, there was a violent sounding cacophony of breaking
noises from the other room, culminating in the abrupt silencing of music.
“What the fuck,” someone boomed from the
source of chaos.
“Shit,”
I said suddenly. “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure that was my cue to get outta
here!”
“What
do you mean,” Juliette asked, obviously confused. Several voices could not be
heard in the slice, pugilistic in nature and growing increasingly vicious.
“I’m
pretty sure that whatever destruction transpire… my buddy was behind it. So I
should probably get him out of here before these frat boys kill him.”
“Of
course,” she countered, crossing her arms again, “run off just as things are
getting interesting!”
“Sorry,”
I said before taking off towards the source of disaster. “It was nice meeting
you,” I hollered over my shoulder.
Sure
enough, Louie and his coterie of coeds had been the cause of chaos. He was
nonchalantly trying to explain himself while five brutish, Polo-toting
partygoers yelled at him; on the floor nearby, I noticed a very large and, most
likely, expensive stereo set.
“Listen
boys,” Louie petitioned. “Accidents happen! In this case I think it was a mild
tremor. We should contact the city, see if they cover damages!” And just like
that, one of the brothers punched Louie in the face. The nearly naked Canadian
went down instantly.
I
looked around, desperate for an idea to help Louie. With no time and limited
resources, I grabbed a nearby bottle of booze and looked at the label: Bacardi
151. I took a large swig, keeping the corrosive alcohol in my cheeks. I then
walked up behind one of the four fraternity fiends, tapped him on the shoulder,
and spat the combustible liquor in his face… making sure to get his eyes. I
then tackled the closest one from behind, distracting the other two. This gave
Louie the chance to get up and, with a knee-to-groin/fist-to-face combination,
gave us momentary respite.
“I’d
say it’s time we boogie, don’t you,” I said as we sprinted towards the door. I
could hear the growing fury of the masses as their shock dissipated and their
rage became unchecked.
“Yeah,
seems right,” Louie replied with a grin. We bolted out the door and were
heading towards the car when Louie veered off. “I need to get my clothes!”
“Oh
great,” I said to myself as I watched him run around the perimeter of the house.
I ran over to my car and tried to remain as inconspicuous as I could. From
inside, I could hear the sounds of music once more, which was probably the only
thing preventing us from being killed by college kids.
“That
was certainly an exit!” Spooked, I looked right and noticed Juliette
approaching.
“We
like to leave in a memorable manner,” I replied with my usual grin. “You know,
leave the masses with a story to tell.”
“I
can tell.” She crossed her feet and buried her hands in her back pockets.
“So
what brings you out here,” I asked.
“Well
you forgot this on the chair,” she replied, drawing my notebook from her back
pocket. “I figured you’d want it back, and I have a feeling those troglodytes
would have just thrown it out tomorrow morning.”
“Holy
hell,” I said, walking towards her. She offered it but, when I took hold of it,
refused to let go. She looked at me, I her, and a matching grin spread on our
faces.
“Allons,
mon ami,” Louie cried, approaching the car from behind in a full sprint. “I
think they saw me getting my clothes, so we should leave now!” Louie
practically shoved the two of us aside while opening the passenger door.
“Thank
you,” I said with a smile and wink. She looked at her feet and released the
notebook.
“Don’t
mention it,” she replied. She looked back at the house then said, “good luck in
the escape!”
I
chuckled a bit and get into my car. I started the engine, shifted into gear,
and peeled out… just as a beer can sailed across my hood. I stepped down on the
accelerator and let the turbo system lurch us forward. In the rearview mirror,
I could still make out the figure of Juliette, alone in the street.
We
ended the night pulled over on the side of Mulholland Drive, sitting on the
hood of my car and overlooking the city. From this angle and at this hour, the
city looked like a giant circuit board, lit up and buzzing in the frenzy of divine
computation. On the way north, at Louie’s request, we stopped at a 7-Eleven. I
waited in my car while he sauntered inside, only to reemerge with two cheap
cigars and an even cheaper bottle of champagne.
“You
know you’re a real nutcase,” I said after puffing out a smoke ring. In the
still night air, I watched it drift out over the orchard of light.
“What
did I do this time,” Louie asked after taking a pull on the champagne bottle.
He then handed it to me and I did the same.
“What
did you do? You’ve got to be kidding me, Lou. You managed to start shit at
every place we went to since work! And don’t get me started on crashing a USC
party.”
“Hey…
I didn’t know it was a college thing. I just saw house party. But it was fun,
no?”
“For
you, sure,” I spat back, handing him the bottle. “But I couldn’t go wild cause
I was driving you around, you degenerate.”
“You
worry too much,” Louie said as he took a long drag from his Macanudo cigar.”
“I
think you’ve said that already today.”
“Have
you ever heard the expression that it’s better to ask forgiveness than
permission?”
“Yeah,
I’m familiar,” I replied, sending out another ring.
“Well
I say that’s bullshit. I don’t believe in asking for permission or forgiveness! I live life on my terms,
damn it. There’s so much fucked up nonsense in the world, in our daily lives,
that we have absolutely no control over. So I’m exercising whatever goddamn
freedoms I have to do as I please… despite what anyone thinks.”
“I
repeat… you’re a psychopath.”
“Meh!”
“But
you might also be a genius,” I said. “Now give me that bottle…”
…
I finish my breakfast just as I finish the last page of notes from the night
before. My headache has disappeared and I feel like my weird old self again. I
push the plate forward, silverware stacked atop it, and finish my coffee. I go
to close my notebook when I notice a dog-eared page in the middle of the book.
I open to the page with an inquiring expression. There, printed in ghastly blue
ink and with cursive, stylized handwriting is a telephone number. Beneath it, a
single word: Juliette.
I
close the book and chuckle to myself. Maybe Louie is right. Maybe every problem
I face is a result of my own self-doubt, of squandering time and opportunity.
Lately I find myself feeling bored and uninspired, which I blame on the world.
But what if, in the end, it is just me overlooking those fleeting moments of
the bizarre and the exceptional? Louie, the mad Canadian philosopher… preaching
self-help from the rim of a martini glass.
I
notice the waitress out of the corner of my eye. I see her approach, coffee pot
in hand. Without even asking, she knows to refill the mug no matter what. She
then takes the plate back into the kitchen. Just as she reemerges from the
kitchen, my cell phone starts wringing.
“Hello,”
I say.
“Strat, what’s up bro?” It’s my friend
Rob, better known by his moniker Cabbie. We know each other from the New York
days, but he’s a recent transplant in Santa Monica.
“What’s
goin’ on, Cabbie?”
“Not much, not much. What are you up to
today?”
“I’m
just finishing breakfast,” I reply. I instantly become suspicious. “Why, what’s
up?”
“Marshal and I are meeting up with some
buddies for Mai Tais at Hop Louie’s downtown in a bit, then we’re going to
crash a chili cook-off and hotdog eating contest at a Pentecostal church in
Crenshaw! You totally need to join!”
“Jesus
Christ you guys are absurd,” I reply, laughing aloud. I look up and meet the
waitress’s eyes before she quickly averts her gaze and moves to another
customer.
“No kidding. So what’s the deal? You
coming?” I pause momentarily, weighing my options.
“Count
me in. I’m heading your way now. But I’m not driving!”
At
the cash register next to the front door, the waitress hands me back change
with a cordial, sincere smile… not the standard issue customer service smile.
“Exciting
plans for the day,” she asks.
“In
a manner of speaking,” I reply. “Not sure you’d believe me if I told you.
Probably because I don’t quite believe it myself.”
“But
aren’t those the best kinds of plans?”
“I
guess we’ll see.” I take a toothpick and bite down on it as I put on my
sunglasses. “Thanks for everything… as always.”
“Absolutely,”
she replied, her nose crinkling with her smile. “See you next weekend?”
“You
know it,” I reply, nodding my farewell. I turn towards the door and I’m about
to push it open when she speaks again.
“Oh…
and by the way, my name is Sarah.” She angles her head ever so slightly,
holding her glowing smirk.
“It’s
a pleasure to finally meet you, Sarah” I say. “I’m Stratton.”
“Nice
to meet you too, Stratton. I’ll see you next time.” And with that, she walks
towards another table. I remain standing at the door for a moment before
pushing my way out into the rapidly waking streets…
