Starbucks Follies

4:22 pm: Tuesday, September 9th.
I’m two minutes late. Lauren’s not here. Figures. I take my favorite seat by the window. Behind me is a teacher I recognize from Stoga. I think he teaches one of the government classes? I’m not sure though. With him is a woman I’ve never seen before, munching on a croissant. Cool. I don’t like Starbucks much. It makes me uncomfortable. But it’s close to Lauren’s house. Plus, it has air conditioning, a bonus, considering it’s hot as balls out.
        4:31 pm: “Yooo I’m really sorry, I’ll be there in like five minutes, my Mom’s being a cunt. Sorry…OH MY GOD! MOM SHUT THE FUCK UP I’M ON THE PHONE… Sorry, I’ll be there in five.”
I can hear Mrs. Laslo yelling something in the background. She doesn’t like me, the same way my Mom doesn’t like Lauren. We’re “trouble”. We were a lot like the pair from “Thirteen” when we were fourteen. When Lauren says she’ll be here in five she actually means twenty. It’s endearing though. Ying to the yang, alter egos, kindred spirits, soul mates? No. We just get each other.
“It’s cool. I’ll see you then.” We hang up at the same time.
    I pick up the cup. It’s cold. There are traces of pink lipstick on the lid.  I put it to my lips and take a pretend sip. I have three dollars in change, and not paying in quarters. I’m not that much of an asshole. I take a real sip and sputter. It’s disgusting.
4:37 pm. The sunlight pouring through the window looks inviting. I throw out “my cup” and leave.
It’s a lot nicer out. Breezy. The sky is clear and blue. A perfect day for photogging. My super, sweet camera has been hanging from my neck the entire time. The Canon Rebel XSi. It’s big, bulky and pretentious. I spent all my Partyland money on it. It was worth it though, 12.5 mega pix. It’s makes me feel superior to have a superior camera. The only problem is I can never decide on what to take. Fifty-eight out of the sixty-seven pictures are of Matt Bourque. The other nine are of my cats. I like portraits. I like cats. I like Matt.
My Dad had gone through my pictures, the night before:
“Wow.. you must really like that Matt kid.” 
“Yea, I guess. He’s nice.”
“But all of your pictures are of him.”
“Yea, I know.”
“Is that normal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmmmmmmm.”
It’s not normal.
    To the left of me is route 30. It’s rush hour. The blurred cars and the blinking red and green lights look really cool against a backdrop of endless blue. I’d take a picture but there’s a lamppost in the way; messing up the composition of what could be a sweet photo. God, I’m lazy. To my right is the Paoli train station. It kind of sucks compared to the Berwyn and the Malvern one. Obama gave a speech there in May. I would’ve gone but I was too busy partying it up at Partyland. As much as I hate working there, I like feeling. There’s a bunch of SEPTA shuttle buses out front. Every person, who gets off is black. It’s funny the only time I have ever see a black person in this area, is here. Leaving. It’s like after five it becomes socially unacceptable, to be black in the Main Line. Kinda like vampires, but the opposite. It’s really funny, in a horribly depressing way. It makes me feel sad and guilty and awful for being white. I watch
them, cross the bridge to the platform, where they’ll be greeted by the upcoming R5. It’s the kind of moment that I’d like to capture. I flip the dial from portrait, to macro, to landscape. Landscape seems pretty good.
    I don’t know what proper photo etiquette is for amateurs. Is it cool to take pictures of people without their consent or knowledge? Or is that just like peeping tomesque? I come up with a solution: take pictures anyway, and if they look at me pretend to be taking a picture of something else. Yea. That works. I have a really distorted sense of logic. Click, click, snap, click, snap, click. I take maybe fifteen shots, before I feel like a creep. Most of them are out of focus. And the rest just suck. I flip the switch from manual to automatic and take a picture of myself.  Upside down, isn’t my most flattering angle. I have three chins. Delete. Definitely not facebook worthy. Lololololol. I’m hilarious. Even I can find humor in my narcissism.
    4:48 pm: Fuck. She’s still not here. It’s hot. I look behind me.
    No. Fucking. Way.
    It’s him. I blink. He’s still there. I blink again. Once. Twice. Three. Four times. Well, enough, to figure that I’m not tripping. It’s him.
“Dadadada..Dyl..hi.”
Oh good one, Soph. You sound like a fucking retard.
He glances in my direction. “Hey.”


That’s it.
Hey.


I’m really, really, really angry.
    “HEY DICKWEED! HEYY! HI GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. How’s being a Daddy treating you? Do you remember me? Remember these shoes? I do. I threw up on them that time you and your friends got me sick. Sitting outside your car, throwing up blood, crying; while you jacked off in the driver’s seat. Yea, good fucking times. I thought I got you. I gave you fucking everything. Everything. Why would you do this to me? To anyone? This shirt I’m wearing is yours. You thought it was weird that I wore my brother’s clothes. “A girl should only wear another dudes’ clothes, if they’re fucking.” Always, the gentlemen. You are so low. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate hate, hate, hate you. I hate you.”
    In a parallel universe I would have said this.
    In a parallel universe he would’ve turned around spawning a billion different possibilities. But in this particular universe he keeps on walking. He doesn’t look back. Nothing. Thanks for the memories, Dylan, even though they weren’t that great. Thanks.   
    I don’t cry. Thank god, that’s just embarrassing. I sit. I sit and I watch him cross the bridge, walk the platform, and I watch the blur of the train sweep him away from me. That’s it. I’m left to sit, on the stoop in front of Starbucks. Alone. Wondering how it was possible, to have your heart broken with just a glance.