I hate this.

Posted: November 29, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: , , , ,

She sat in a booth near a window, while she gracefully munched a fancy, cold sandwich of some sort.
I sat down.
Late.
I asked for a cup of hot water, and the waitress spat up flak.
Habits.
“Listen, I’ll pay for tea. If you feel obligated to waste it, bring me the bag separate from the water, but I just want the water.”
She looked at me like I was crazy; disheveled from work in plain, ill-fitting clothes across from a well manicured, proper woman who eats modest lunches and orders syrupy, bubbly concoctions to wash them down.
When the waitress left to tell the others about the crackpot in the booth over here, the woman I was meeting during my lunch hour spoke.
“Do you remember that girl that I had you work with a few times?”
I stared blankly.
“That little bit of a thing,” she made a strange gesture with her hand in the air, “What was her name?”
I clawed through the recesses of my mind and came across a face.
“Amber…or Ashley? Amber maybe?” I thought about the girl who killed herself at my college. No one could remember her fucking name either, and it’s funny how those fragile, little anorexic girls really do acquire an astonishing level of invisibility in retrospect. I remember her elbows…
“Hmm…Amber, maybe.” She took a bite of her sandwich, and I waited. “How would you feel about a female client?”
I’ve never had a female client. “Indifferent,” was my answer and my attitude. What difference does it make? Her name was Kaitlyn…the girl that went to the same college I did. What difference does it make?
“Good,” and the woman wrapped a smile around the rim of her soda glass.
Or is it “pop” here?
The waitress came with a cup of hot water, set it down and asked if everything was all right with my companion’s meal.
“Erin,” I interrupted the niceties in front of me. Both of them looked at me then, and I stared into my cup of water in a saucer on the table. “Her name was Erin,” I muttered. The girl that I’d worked with a few times. Her name was Erin, although…what difference did that make?
“Who?”
“Amber or Ashley. Her name was Erin.”
“Oh…” Her response was flat and uninterested. The waitress set the bill down. I noticed that I was not charged for the water. Erin is a funny name. I always think of “Aaron” before “Erin” and get my genders confused. It’s not because I know any more of one than the other.
“I should be going,” I spat in apology for killing the business at hand with silly things like names attached to elbows. I placed a few bills under my untouched cup of hot water and stood.
“I’ll have something lined up for you by the weekend,” she told me without looking up from her purse. In a proper universe, I would have dashed the hot liquid into her penciled in face.

If I could drink peanut butter; if I could choke the chunky shit down without any sort of diluting, I think that would sum up how I feel about you right now. I want to hate you so much that it’s worse than if I really could just fucking hate you.

You’re not peanut butter.
I don’t hate you.

I don’t even really hate myself anymore.

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