Something cute is happening in front of me and my manager’s roommate while we smoke weed in the back of the bar.
I ask, “Did I hear John say you two recently moved?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“Oh, where you living now?”
There’s a lovely pause in our friendly conversation.
“Oh,” I say. Our eyes twinkle and shine toward one another. “Very cool.”
“Yeah, we moved around two weeks ago.”
“It’s funny,” I say, “You have more money right now than I’ll have my whole life. That’s very nice for you.”
He thanks me and expresses profound humility.
“Yeah,” I twirl my thumbs. “I just realized I can’t relate with your life in anyway whatsoever. Have a great day!”
There is something nice about me when I meet Paul near Boston Commons.
“So, that made me feel really emasculated,” I remark to her.
“Do I smell bad to you? I haven’t showered in a while and all my clothes are dirty.”
“No, I don’t smell anything.”
We sit in front of ducks or geese.
“I just want to remind you that you can be completely honest with me.”
“You do smell but it doesn’t bother me,” she divulges to me in confidence.
A grand jury recently decided not to indict police officer Darren Wilson in the murder of Michael Brown.
“That’s terrible,” she says.
We order what we would later agree to be two “very delicious, and especially cheap cappuccinos.”
“That will be $8.89,” the barista smiles at us.
Paul investigates her pink purse.
“Oh no,” she says. “I don’t have enough money.”
Our eyes transpose with the cashier in the shape of what my imagination made-believe to be the Bermuda triangle.
“This is very embarrassing,” I say.
We accumulate our money, reaching six dollars.
“You guys are straight,” the cashier says.
“I just want you to know I feel like a terrible human being,” I confide in her.
Outside the cafe, “We deserved that shameful experience to happen,” I say.
“We are horrible and deserve this.”
We begin our leisurely stroll towards the train station.
“Can you spare some change,” a human being asks us. “I’m very hungry out here.”
Paul asks me what’s new.
“Well, I was talking to my friend about post-modernism yesterday. I just don’t get it, I think.”
“Did you know I was once in a Model UN?” she asks me.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned it before.”
“Oh, and did I tell you about how–”
“You locked your classmate out of the hotel room because he said something misogynistic.”
She explains how she has a number of preset anecdotes that she will tell people.
“Yes, I have those things too!”
“Isn’t it great that we compile these experiences in our life, and willfully highlight certain events to paint this picture of ourselves to the people around us.”
“And that’s who we are, I know. It’s crazy.”
“And we chose to see each other.”
“Yeah, and we pretend like it’s a casual thing but it’s really because we feel this impulse to see each other.”
“It’s super weird,” she says.
“Can I use your phone for a second? Mine just died.”
I trade my friendship for her smartphone.
“so happy with being happy and friendly,” I tweet.
A man in a suit walks by us while we sit and smoke weed on a bench.
“Smoking weed is something people do,” she says.
“It’s super fun. We can do this and nothing bad will happen to us even though it’s illegal.”
I’m still using her phone when I accept a friend request, and like some statuses.
“Can I see it for a second?” she asks. “Jesus christ, Theo. It’s at 3%.”
“I feel terrible, Paul.”
“Theo, it was at like 60% when I let you borrow it.”
“Look,” our legs stumble in front of a window pane.
“Wow,” she says.
“It’s a 3D-printer,” she says.
We marvel in wonderfilled gaze.
“I love technology,” I say.
“It’s making a turtle.”
The storefront shines light on our cute faces. Just then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. “It looks like it’s pooping,” I say, surprising myself with a little wink.
Theo Thimo lives in Brooklyn. He has been published in Metazen, Press Board Press, Shabby Doll House, and Everyday Genius. He can also be found on Twitter and Tumblr.
Theo has five stories in Electric Cereal.