March 28, 2005
Can you hear me now?
I spent my Saturday afternoon and night with new and older friends drinking to excess and eating baked chips coated in queso. My best friend showed up at the ready, bucket of original KFC in hand as well as a medium fast-food diet coke garnished with rum. She drank and laughed and kicked our asses at whatever that edition of Trivial Pursuit is that you can actually win. Four score and seven beers later, she summoned me to the bottom of the outside stairs, away from the male barbeque participants. She had already lit her cigarette and held one out for me. The look on her face was unmistakable. He hadn't called.

Gone were the bright eyes that sparkled at the thought of the two of them dancing until 2 and a cab fare usually suffered alone this time split. To her, the jokes weren't all that funny anymore and neither were the people delivering them. Instead, it was clear that she probably hadn't worked out enough and had definitely jinxed everything by commenting on how nice it was that he and his mother got along so well. She would never again tell a man she was so excited to see him. And had this not happened 40 times to her already? It couldn't have been been them, not Adam 1, not Adam 2, and certainly not the one that had looked like DiCaprio.

She ultimately ended up at a dive bar on 16th Street, drinking so heavily that she drunk dialed her father at 3:30 am to tell him that she probably wouldn't be making it to his place in a few hours for Peeps and mimosas.

Note to Him (and my mother, silent treatment day 15): Even the Tsunami victims managed to find a signal.


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