Sarcasm and trauma aren’t enough?
For friendship? Maybe. For entertainment? The jury’s out.
But, go on, try to impress me.
Okay. I can cook, fix anything with duct tape, and once won a bar trivia night by naming all the Spice Girls’ middle names.
Who are the Spice Girls?
Please tell me you’re joking.
A little. Proceed.
Baby Spice…Melanie Jayne.
Googling as we speak.
Wow. Zero trust.
You’re a stranger. I trust nothing.
Fine. Google away. But I’m right.
If you’re wrong, you owe me.
And if I’m right?
Then I owe you. But don’t get cocky.
Already cocky. Stay tuned. I’m just getting started.
I will say, you’re definitely more interesting than the reality show I had on.
High praise. What show?
The Bachelor Barn. A trash dating show. They make you look stable by comparison.
Ouch!
No offense.
Honestly, none taken.
The conversation unfolds like improv with a somewhat charming maniac. We trade insults and odd truths. I now know all the Spice Girls’ middle names, and we’ve developed a backstory for Carl the Doll Collector that includes three failed marriages and a surprisingly successful Etsy store.
Unknown is reeling from a breakup. I’m avoiding mine. We’re both emotionally unstable and unreasonably witty.
My cheeks ache from grinning. The silence that used to crush me is now filled with unexpected banter and badly timed jokes from someone I don’t know.
The text thread goes quiet for a bit, and I’m slightly concerned I offended him. Or maybe he just got bored of me.
Then he resurfaces and we shift. From banter to honesty. From flippant to raw.
Unknown tells me what happened—that he walked in onChloe, when he was going to ask her to move in tonight.
I’m the biggest idiot alive.
Why?
