I have to work late, and then there’s a screaming child on the subway home. Her parents don’t even have the decency to pretend they’re embarrassed by the situation. One sings the alphabet song in French while the other says:
Adrianna angry? Adrianna angry?
The kid is screaming her head off in the crowded train. It’s not a sardine can situation, but it’s standing room only. Those who don’t already have their ears plugged with music dig around in their pockets and bags to stop them up now. I don’t even have the energy. I just listen to this kid scream and scream.
At home I throw of my work clothes, throw on my jeans, throw on some makeup so it might not be immediately apparent that I’ve been awake since 2am with a jingle from a bank commercial stuck in my head. I’m so late getting home I only have time to make oatmeal for dinner. 90 seconds, done! I tell the guy I’ll be wearing a yellow coat. Instead I wear a red one.
This is how I arrive at the date.
I go on the date because nothing else I’ve tried has made me feel better and some people say the cure for a broken heart is distracting it with someone new.
That’s what they say.