Photo by Travis Dillinger
Christine, my friend from college, always had a thing about being late. Sometimes it was in the worst sense imaginable, but most times it was simply a punctuality problem. We made plans and I used up one of my personal days in the first seven days of 2010. An hour after her intended arrival, she walks off her train in a huff.
Are you on Central time?
Sorry.
It’s fine.
And it was. I didn’t care that she was late because I killed time getting coffee, going to the bookstore, playing on my phone taking pictures of feet and pedestrians, and texting Nicole incessantly.
She tried her best to keep me in Midtown, but I dragged her to the Village. I had an appetite for dive bars and overpriced cafés. She dragged me into stores, and I dragged her into a record store or two. She didn’t appreciate vinyl, and I didn’t appreciate Dolche. And we filled our awkward silences with talks about college friends and Writing 101. And I tried my best to forget that I’d made out with her on more then a handful of drunken occasions. It made me miss college. I always lie to myself that I hated college, but it brought out the few fond memories of those four years. By the end of the night, she got me to agree to a Midtown bar before boding her farewell at Grand.
