Lori is the kind of girl that spent a week in France three years ago and still pronounces Paris as "Par-ee," as if sounding like a middle-school French student with a sinus infection is some way of demonstrating one's eclecticism.
She commented on the holes in my jeans, calling them "neo-grunge." I call it, "I haven't gotten new jeans in a while." She loves my Springsteen albums because they're "vintage." She talked about her father's Cadillac, as if the fact that my dad owns a car repair shop means that I give a fuck. She asked if the chicken was free-range. She signs her name with Lori Parker, M.B.A.
In two and a half hours, she found six different ways to mention her two weeks of volunteering with orphans. She liked that I was going to night school, calling it "endearing" and "optimistic." She thinks I should shave. She wants to hear me play the guitar. None of her ex-boyfriends played the guitar. They were all crazy, she assured me, and the fact that there were so many of them was entirely their fault.
At the end of the night, after she didn't offer to pay, she reached into her velvet pocketbook and pulled out a fountain pen. She scribbled her number on a cocktail napkin (of course, she made all the 1s like they do in Europe), and wrote "Call me!" under it, replacing the dot on the exclamation mark with a small heart.
I didn't call her.
28 December 2012
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