She hardly watches T.V., but watching last night with her boyfriend one of my commercial's ran and he said "check this guy, he does Vermont really funny."
I smile, she continues "It was the one where you eat the apple, the 'Sunday One,' one. And I walk in, and here you are."
I act unimpressed while doing my best to fabricate what I can of a faux embarrassed smile "oh yeah, the one where I eat the apple." She nods. I return attention back to my bowl of noodles.
Humans regularly define complete truth by what they see from a distance, and at the neighborhood joint, a church, gas station, theatre, fish market, baseball diamond, hospital waiting room, or anywhere really, me chatting up, or in this case I define it as, me being chatted up, by a women, will more than likely be defined as Me hitting on the women. I don't need to fuel the reputation I have for hitting on the "young," ones. (Reputation completely cultivated for the purpose of selling tickets to those watching from a distance, proven effective I might add) So to skirt presumed guilt, I play possum. I eat more, but don't say more. If the pretty gal and I are going to continue our relationship, it's all up to her.
I consider the odds, and past experience tells me it's over between her and I.
Then, improbability strikes a second time, like lightening.
"The Vermont thing is great, I like it. I'm from New Jersey." She speaks, and I'm so surprised, my right leg twitches, sending my knee into the underside of the counter. It hurts. But it's a good hurt.
Macaroni done, applesauce gone, still enough tea left to wash down a brownie, the pretty girl and I dive head first into small talk.