17 July 2010 at 9:28 pm
I ask what her boyfriend does for a living. "He's a commodities broker," she says. I don't ask what commodities he brokers, but they're from Santa Maria, so I can assume it's drugs.
"God, my HAIR!" she exasperates, swishing it around, waiting for me to tell her she looks fine. I say nothing.
We're in my car, driving a few blocks up to the tattoo parlor, and start unloading her things when she screeches, "Omg it's Sunday, they're CLOSED?!" We're five blocks away from where she approached me; she was tired of carrying her luggage and her garbage bag of dirty clothes wearing four inch heels.
You know, I've been there, but not for this exact reason. I've needed a ride, not wanting to walk in four inch heels. I ran barefoot instead. But I the only thing I have planned for the evening to to futz around with a dimply plum cake -- some whole wheat pastry flour here, a splash buttermilk there -- so I hefted her suitcase back into my car, and awaited direction.
mod l post-mod
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.