(no subject)
Hi so I still can only write shitty little passive things about boys and whatnot, but I like this boy I think, guh, ok bye.
He picks me up in a shitty tan corolla and I don’t have to guess which car is his; it’s the one with really loud punk music blaring and an unshaven twenty-something in plaid hanging out of the window.
The first thing he does is apologize for the state of the car, the standard thing to do when anyone climbs into your passenger seat. I say, “ah no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” and I really don’t mind even though its littered with receipts, empty plastic cups, a newspaper, and so on.
We drive towards our pre-arranged Sunday brunch date, and he turns up the music and sings along. There’s a brace on his right hand, cuts on his arm. “Brownie points if you can tell me what band this is,” he says, grinning. I don’t want to insult his taste in music so I tell him I think I know but don’t want to say cause I’m not sure, but it does sound familiar. He tells me it’s Minor Threat and I act like I knew that and he goes off explaining how their demos are their best stuff, how it’s all done in one take. He tells me later that his first love is guitar and that he wants to play in a shitty punk band but it’s not what he wants to “do” cause the idea of making money off punk music makes him sick. “Besides, girls don’t really like dudes in shitty punk bands,” he adds and I say, “most girls suck, anyway.”
We are both impressed by the brunch buffet layout and the free mimosas. He’s vegetarian and gets two omelets and grits and potatoes, while I can only stomach some fruit and a biscuit. I shouldn’t be drinking a mimosa after all of the beer from last night, waiting for him to show up at the bar, drinking and drinking to make myself think he was still coming, that we weren’t playing this weird game of revenge. The brunch was my consolation prize to him.
The plates are cleared and the waitress brings cups of water because we’re still talking, talking about writing, movies, our disinterest in sports, so on. We make jokes and genuinely laugh. We run across four-lane traffic because we forgot we parked on the other side. He tells me he likes running around this part of town, that he feels like a college student again. He tells me I should go into the place where we put our name on the list over an hour ago and demand to be seated. He likes to cause trouble, and I think I like that about him.
He tells me about his dad, about how his parents don’t want him to move to North Carolina. I ask too why he’s moving, and he says, “to become a mountain man,” and I’m swooning. He tells me too that the brace and the scrapes are from a violent ex-girlfriend. I feel sad for him, and I want to hug him and tell him it’s okay. I feel sad too when he tells me his father can’t even make a 3pm curtain call to his play. He imitates him in a perfect Greek accent and I think of the bond boys have with fathers, about how his father forced him into football at seven when he wanted to act instead. The complicated relationship between George and his father shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is.
When he drops me off he calls me Rachel Ray and doesn’t even stop the car to come in but I like that, I really like that because we already took it too fast and now we’re slowing it back down. And when I go inside and fall on the bed and grin and think about seeing him again, I know that it means I like the boy that blared Minor Threat and ran across traffic with me and wants to play shitty guitar and read plays.
He picks me up in a shitty tan corolla and I don’t have to guess which car is his; it’s the one with really loud punk music blaring and an unshaven twenty-something in plaid hanging out of the window.
The first thing he does is apologize for the state of the car, the standard thing to do when anyone climbs into your passenger seat. I say, “ah no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” and I really don’t mind even though its littered with receipts, empty plastic cups, a newspaper, and so on.
We drive towards our pre-arranged Sunday brunch date, and he turns up the music and sings along. There’s a brace on his right hand, cuts on his arm. “Brownie points if you can tell me what band this is,” he says, grinning. I don’t want to insult his taste in music so I tell him I think I know but don’t want to say cause I’m not sure, but it does sound familiar. He tells me it’s Minor Threat and I act like I knew that and he goes off explaining how their demos are their best stuff, how it’s all done in one take. He tells me later that his first love is guitar and that he wants to play in a shitty punk band but it’s not what he wants to “do” cause the idea of making money off punk music makes him sick. “Besides, girls don’t really like dudes in shitty punk bands,” he adds and I say, “most girls suck, anyway.”
We are both impressed by the brunch buffet layout and the free mimosas. He’s vegetarian and gets two omelets and grits and potatoes, while I can only stomach some fruit and a biscuit. I shouldn’t be drinking a mimosa after all of the beer from last night, waiting for him to show up at the bar, drinking and drinking to make myself think he was still coming, that we weren’t playing this weird game of revenge. The brunch was my consolation prize to him.
The plates are cleared and the waitress brings cups of water because we’re still talking, talking about writing, movies, our disinterest in sports, so on. We make jokes and genuinely laugh. We run across four-lane traffic because we forgot we parked on the other side. He tells me he likes running around this part of town, that he feels like a college student again. He tells me I should go into the place where we put our name on the list over an hour ago and demand to be seated. He likes to cause trouble, and I think I like that about him.
He tells me about his dad, about how his parents don’t want him to move to North Carolina. I ask too why he’s moving, and he says, “to become a mountain man,” and I’m swooning. He tells me too that the brace and the scrapes are from a violent ex-girlfriend. I feel sad for him, and I want to hug him and tell him it’s okay. I feel sad too when he tells me his father can’t even make a 3pm curtain call to his play. He imitates him in a perfect Greek accent and I think of the bond boys have with fathers, about how his father forced him into football at seven when he wanted to act instead. The complicated relationship between George and his father shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is.
When he drops me off he calls me Rachel Ray and doesn’t even stop the car to come in but I like that, I really like that because we already took it too fast and now we’re slowing it back down. And when I go inside and fall on the bed and grin and think about seeing him again, I know that it means I like the boy that blared Minor Threat and ran across traffic with me and wants to play shitty guitar and read plays.