Out to Lunch

“That’s when I realized it,” she says, cutting our Santa Barbara chicken sandwich in half, “Life’s so short.”

Exactly.  I have to sit here and pretend what she’s saying makes some kind of sense.  This is why I hate going to lunch.  She was late too, like really late.  Her idea of being “ten minutes away” is a lot different than my version, or everyone else’s rather.  I grab a handful of French fries.

“I was driving to David’s to get my hair cut and I saw this motorcycle all beat up on the side of the road,” she continues.  I watch her silver charm bracelet bounce up and down on the table while she cuts.  “There was an ambulance and everything, the woman driving it was being taken away.  It just made me realize you have to live your life, each day, to the fullest.”

She must feel like she’s stating a shrewd declaration.  I have to let it go.  I twirl my fork into the dish of pasta we’re sharing and put a mound on my plate. 

“How’s everything with you though?”

I don’t answer though.  I want to say something about how I don’t understand what she’s doing.  How I think she should stop being so flaky.  That she should stop what she has with this other guy and be with her boyfriend, who loves her so much it’s ridiculous.  He once waited at the mall while she tried on the same dress for an hour and a half and then didn’t even buy it.  I can’t say anything though.  She’s not systematically numbed to the idea of romance like I am.  She still believes in things and people and an overall conviction in the cosmos.  How can I let someone down like that?  I can’t.  I tell her that her eyeliner looks good.  It looks natural.