Me Time
Monday night, I'm staring at the bus floor wondering why it's blue, quietly judging myself for being on the bus at 7 at night from Uptown down to Lakeview, also realizing that I would like to grab a drink, but who to call? I am out of friends when a couple of them go out of town or have a hookup living with them for three days. I can go eat at the bar in Pastoral, no problem. I'm thinking mac & cheese and a glass of wine. I get off at Wellington and go straight to their store instead.
I walk in and look at my watch. I should have 30 minutes or so. I look for a bottle of merlot and find it. Next to me a man grabs the last baguette, but that's alright because I know they'll have more in the back. I head for the fridge and find a personal size cut of brie, a trimming for sure. 5 fucking bucks.
I head to the counter and a woman asks the clerk what kind of bread she's holding. Not a baguette apparently so she's given one from the back. See?
The man in front of her lets her check out first. Then he does. He signs his receipt, holding the pen like he couldn't be bothered, pointing at the paper straight up like he's painting with a watercolor brush. Asshole. Then he decides that he needs another container of pesto. The clerk takes time to find an empty container, spoon, and weigh, and charge. Meanwhile, the man holds up his phone to the ceiling, then walks two more steps to get it to catch the song that's playing. Something that a decent person should be doing discreetly instead, but he does it like he wants strangers to know that he has an app for finding out the music he comes across seredipidly in public. He signs again. Abhorrent.
I walk home, baguette and a bottle of merlot at hand. I didn't want to bag it exactly for that reason. The night is crisp and I'm heading home in my gym shorts looking like I'm going to my apartment and speak French to my dog.
I eat my dinner standing up next to the kitchen counter. I pour the wine in a short glass. My dog gets the rind. Not too much so he doesn't get sick, and now he's yelling at me. I've smoked two cigarettes now. I'll have another one. I'm outside again. Maybe I'll get Chinese.
I walk in and look at my watch. I should have 30 minutes or so. I look for a bottle of merlot and find it. Next to me a man grabs the last baguette, but that's alright because I know they'll have more in the back. I head for the fridge and find a personal size cut of brie, a trimming for sure. 5 fucking bucks.
I head to the counter and a woman asks the clerk what kind of bread she's holding. Not a baguette apparently so she's given one from the back. See?
The man in front of her lets her check out first. Then he does. He signs his receipt, holding the pen like he couldn't be bothered, pointing at the paper straight up like he's painting with a watercolor brush. Asshole. Then he decides that he needs another container of pesto. The clerk takes time to find an empty container, spoon, and weigh, and charge. Meanwhile, the man holds up his phone to the ceiling, then walks two more steps to get it to catch the song that's playing. Something that a decent person should be doing discreetly instead, but he does it like he wants strangers to know that he has an app for finding out the music he comes across seredipidly in public. He signs again. Abhorrent.
I walk home, baguette and a bottle of merlot at hand. I didn't want to bag it exactly for that reason. The night is crisp and I'm heading home in my gym shorts looking like I'm going to my apartment and speak French to my dog.
I eat my dinner standing up next to the kitchen counter. I pour the wine in a short glass. My dog gets the rind. Not too much so he doesn't get sick, and now he's yelling at me. I've smoked two cigarettes now. I'll have another one. I'm outside again. Maybe I'll get Chinese.