Toxic:Tell me, then, who gets your vote for best droid?
Trista Kinney:It’s not a vote—it’s fact, and that would be K-2SO, asshole extraordinaire.
Toxic:Him? BB-8 is a little ray of sunshine—which is why he’s been chosen to be the spokesdroid for the newer movies. K-2SO is a greasebag that did one thing right.
Trista Kinney:Using greasebag instead of douchebag—you’re clever.
I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed talking with a woman this much. Usually, they tell me about their asshole boyfriends or how much they hate work, which I don’t mind listening to one bit.
But there’s something about a geeky girl who knows her droids that gets me excited about having a real conversation that scratched beneath the surface.
Toxic:Did you seriously message me just to knock on BB?
I wait with bated breath, hoping she says no and asks me to hang out. It wouldn’t be easy considering I’m always on the road, but a night or two away from the bus would do me some good.
Trista Kinney:That and pumpkin spice.
Frowning, I try to think up a way to ask her myself.
But instead of feeling excited, I feel empty.
Some days, it just feels like I’ve been doing this for too long, and there’s nothing for me to look forward to.
A small hollow feeling expands in my chest.
My mother is getting old and is about to go through heart surgery, and her biggest fear isn’t death. It’s not being able to meet my kids, which I’m beginning to believe I’ll never have.
It’s stupid that I should be thinking about this because of a droid argument, but in all my thirty years, I’ve never met a woman who made me feel the way she did with just a few snarky texts.
“Line it up!” Carl’s booming voice draws my attention from my worries.
It’s game time,I tell myself as I stow my phone in my locker.
Whoever that girl is, she’s obviously just having fun, and there’s no point in reading into it.
And there’s certainly no point in getting my hopes up.
THREE
Samantha
In all my twenty-six years,I can proudly say I’ve never looked desperate.
That ends today.
It’s been days and Toxic still hasn’t replied to my last text. The logical side of my brain is telling me he has no reason to message me back. He doesn’t know me, and the message I sent him could be construed as hostile to those with no sense of humor.
The less logical side feels betrayed and wants to commit an act of war.
Because I can’t be normal around this guy, I Google BB-8 to find more ammo.
Ah-ha!
Pulling up Toxic’s text box, I insert an article titled:
Rabid Fans Demand BB-8 Gets Own Show
Trista Kinney:Rabid fans? More like BB-8’s sock puppet accounts.
