Hey, I was writing an incoherent piece about food, a vague follow-up to yesterday’s “Kinda Snarky”, when I got real hungry and decided to go into the square to get some, uh, food. I locked my bike across the street from Diesel Cafe and went in and ordered a small Iced Vietnamese to go.
Then I went to Chipotle to get a burrito, which was so graciously stuffed, that it required a few attempts at wrapping up the tortilla and two sheets of tin foil. I knew that this burrito was going to be eaten out of a bowl when I got home.
So then I walked back down Elm Street, toward my bike, which locked in front of Eastern bank. I had to walk my bike since it would have been quite a chore to ride it with my super-stuffed burrito and my Vietnamese.
That’s when I heard you on the phone with someone. You assured the person you were going to finish writing about Blondie soon. Your hair was on the shorter side for a young girl, but still very feminine. You are probably in your early twenties.
I walked past you and as I did so, the whole manic, “Oh-shit-now-or-never/you-won’t-know-if-you-don’t-throw-yourself-out-there/what’s-the-point-esp-when-you-consider-your-current-job-situation/Fuck-me-I’m-30” monologue that every human is familiar with ran through my head. (Upon further consideration, it’s fair to assume Patriots tight-end Rob Gronkowski is unfamiliar with that sort of monolouge- at least to that extent.) Nevertheless, I decided to stop when I reached the other side of the street (the corner Dunkin Donuts occupies, I think.) I had to pretend to examine my keys because I couldn’t pretend to look at my phone, as I left it at home. The possibility existed that you wouldn’t follow me across the street, rendering my key-chain examination more pathetic.
But it paid off. You followed me across the street. (Follow isn’t the most correct word, but I like it. There’s hope in its usage.) We walked alongside each other for a few seconds before I had the gumption to ask you if you were writing something about Blondie. You explained that you were actually referring to a friend of yours you call Blondie. I explained that I was a writer and that I liked Blondie, so that was my weak justification for opening a conversation with you.
You asked me where the Bank of America was located, not just an ATM, but one you could go inside and actually talked to people. I told you that it was around the block a bit and that I was going that way. (Thankfully!) In the minute or so that we walked together you asked me if there was any place fun or cool around here. I asked you what you meant. You explained that you meant dancing and stuff. I told you that you’d have to go to Central Square. There’s a place called Zuzu where you can dance to good oldies songs and stuff. Then you asked me if I knew where one could find a place where one could dance some sort of esoteric dance. I asked you what the esoteric dance was that you spoke of.
As I walked with you (clutching my Vietnamese and Chipotle burrito,) I banged the pedal of my bicycle up against my leg a couple of times. It broke the skin a little.