Drama, venti
Sunday morning. After a couple days of playing soccer and catching rays at the beach, Ned's gone back to the city of angels, where the streets are paved with stars, and people of unswerving integrity flick lit cigarettes out of moving Humvees.
My eyes open against the morning sun, and a mental tally starts, ticking off the number of my close friends that still live nearby. Just as it has for several weeks, the tally zeroes out. I'm left staring up at the ceiling over my futon, shifting with a vague feeling of unease at the long, vacant stretch of daylight ahead of me... and also a pressing need to pee.
Carpe diem? I wouldn't even know where to start.
I remember my anticipatory whining about this very moment to Ned, not long before his departure on Saturday. He said I should I hit up a coffee shop, which seems as reasonable a suggestion as any. I roll out of bed, wash up, and walk over to the bookstore. Straight off, the day starts looking up. A rack full of Nick Hornby's new book, A Long Way Down, greets me at the doorway. I don't even have to browse the shelves after that; the rest of my day's been spoken for. A little swipe of debt switches a few bytes in my bank account, and I walk out the door 333 pages richer.
Conveniently located next door to the bookstore is a Starbucks, simultaneously a symbol of corporate greed and a welcome haven. I remember, in a fit of snobbery, hearing on NPR that their coffee isn't even any good. People go there for three reasons. First, they know what they're going to get. Second, cream. Third, sugar.
Then I remember that I don't know anything about coffee anyway, so I go in and get a small iced coffee, with some cream and sugar. I eagerly head for the tables outside to crack the spine on my book.
On my way out, I notice a couple seated by the counter. They might be about my age, although I find it ridiculously hard to tell ages these days. They have oversized plastic cups, filled with that blend of ice, coffee, cream, and sugar that triggers all my Pavlovian impulses. The man slouches in his seat, sucking on his straw with an elaborate, practiced nonchalance that makes me wonder how long he's been trying to play cool. The woman opposite him is sitting ramrod straight. She's tapping a foot, toying with her straw in one hand and flipping a pack of cigarettes in the other. She's wearing sunglasses, but they've slipped a little, and I can see her eyes floating around the room.
Just another caffeine junkie working off a hangover, I guess. I push through the door and claim a table in the sun, eagerly folding pages and sipping cold coffee.
About fifteen pages later, the door coughs up Rico Suave and his sidekick, Jitterella. They still have their drinks in hand, and promptly flop down at the table next to mine. She lights up, giving me the reason for their migration, and blows an impressive cloud of smoke, giving me a reason for one of my own. I switch to a table upwind. She burns through a cancer stick with impressive speed, and lights up another. Halfway through this one, she starts talking intensely to Rico.
"I don't think this is going to work out."
My fellow Frappuccinistas and I, who were -- up until two seconds ago -- enjoying a peaceful early afternoon tinged with caffeine and sunlight, freeze for a split second. An ice cube shivers its way down our collective spine because, although we are strangers, in this crystallized moment we've become that most uncomfortable of beasts: the Social Audience. Trapped between a sense of propriety and morbid curiosity, the beast can do nothing but sit still and observe, hating itself a little bit more for every moment it exists.
Normal motion resumes, more or less, but I can practically hear popping sounds as ears prick up all around me. I give thanks to the good folks at Oakley, who put the mirror finish on my sunglasses. Due to their hard work and dedication, I can pretty much eyeball any social street theater with impunity.
Rico's mouth is slightly open, a little bit of whipped cream drooling its way down his chin.
"What?" His hand scrubs away the whipped cream suddenly, like a snake striking at a rare treat.
"I don't think this is gonna work out. I'm sorry, I really am." Jitterella ashes her cigarette onto the sidewalk, but there's no grey showing; she just needs a manual full stop.
Some more conversation ensues, of the stunned, circular type that should be familiar to anyone who's gone through an awkward breakup (or seen one on TV). It comes out that she's been dating two guys at once, and Rico just couldn't compete. It never degenerates into open anger or tears, for which I must salute him; I don't know if I could have gone through what he did that day, without a hearty "shit" or "fuck" thrown in for karmic balance. Eventually, a couple cigarettes and zero pages later, Rico stands up from the table.
"Just tell me one thing... what does he have that I don't?"
Jitterella is obviously tired of talking to him. Twin jets of smoke stream past lips pressed to a thin line, and she squints up at him against the sun.
"Me."
Rico's face tightens, then he turns and walks away. He seems limp and empty, a balloon with a slow leak. He crosses his arms as he wanders away from us, but it just looks like he's trying to hug himself.
She sits there for a minute or so before crushing out her cigarette. Geting up smoothly, she strides away with poise, head high and shoulders back. As we watch her disappear around the corner, I hear a single word.
"Bitch."
I'm just surprised it isn't my voice.