That Friend


She was the kind of friend who spared her “I love you’s” for rare occasions. She’d categorize everything you enjoyed as something she never would. “Is it your kind of…?” was something she’d ask before you’d explain a movie, song or television show; if it met your criteria, she’d stop listening.

At meals, she’d place her phone and iPod on the table. In her right ear, an ear bud. Each time her phone vibrated, her topic, tone and even tense would switch.  If she didn’t receive any new text messages, there would be no conversation.

Once certain figures entered the room (figures: people she nicknamed to help her keep track, while you just referred to them as “him”), she would put in the other ear bud or even strut towards them, leaving you alone, hovering over your plate wondering if she’d ever return; but you already knew she wasn’t planning to come back once they grabbed for her sleeve. She’d wear a different pair of high-heeled boots each week that made her come up to their shoulders, so that they could look like “that couple.” Occasionally she’d put on her vanilla-scented perfume; raise her wrist up to your nose. You’d sniff. She’d laugh. Laugh at the fact that the smell reminds you of your childhood babysitter and toss back another joke on your sentimentality.

Photo Credit

Add comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.