Page 7 of Girls Will Be Girls
I’ve managed to wipe my Birkenstocks to an acceptable level of clean, but I might have dented them with the angry force I was using. I’ve also rage-changed shirts to a different colored baby tee — in keeping with thecelebrity running errandslook I was going for today — and furiously dried the sugary liquid stains before packing my newly brown shirt away.
This seems like the best I can do at this point.
It feels wrong to loathe a stranger I’ve only had a two-minute conversation with, but that’s where I’m at right now.
I’m currently picturing scenarios where he gets slightly inconvenienced but to the point of madness. Like, he can never find a matching sock again. His shower is always a few degrees too cold. Every chair he sits on is always an inch too low.
Normally, I would brush things off and slightly disturb my own peace rather than make someone else feel bad for it, but I would love to disturb this guy. I would revel in him being inconvenienced.
Maybe I should clean my sandals again, take more of my rage out on them. These Birkenstocks probably deserve it to be fair. Eight months it took to break these fuckers in. I don’t think my feet will ever be the same again, so another aggressive scrub might be just what they deserve.
Finally fresh-ish, I head to the check-in desk ready to just be on this plane, shut my eyes, daydream about this guy Lou drowning in a vat of hazelnut and vanilla syrup, and forget about my awful morning.
Things are already Millhousing again and there’s almost no queue yet. And that’s why you should arrive at the airport too many hours early.
I wait my turn behind the four passengers in front of me when I get tapped on the shoulder.
My body reacts so dramatically to the smile still on his face that pure anger bubbles inside me like a witch’s cauldron. Maybe I should curse his firstborn just in case.
I roll my eyes. “You’re kidding me?”
I turn back around, hoping he’ll magically disappear. A girl can dream.
“Peace offering?” He has the good sense to sound sheepish.
I peek at him over my shoulder to see him holding out an iced drink and a greasy paper bag.
“I said I was fine.”
“Clearly.” He grins.
I let out what can only be described as a growl and turn my head away from him again. I move ahead in the queue, pulling my suitcase with me in a huffing yank.
“Okay, okay.” He moves in front of me. “I’m sorry.” He holds his offering out further. “Clearly not a fan of me, but can I at least give you these?”
“How do I know you didn’t poison them? You clearly like seeing me in distress.”
He smiles. “I swear. Purely a peace offering.” He waves them a little, making the ice in the drink clink. “It’s decaf.” He smiles desperately.
“Fine.” I huff, grabbing them from his hands.
“I didn’t know what you liked.” He points to the cookies in the bag. “So I got you a normal and a white chocolate chip.”
“Thanks,” I say, bitterly taking a sip of the drink and finally getting the sugar hit I dreamed of. “Hazelnut?”
“Yeah, I could smell it.” He pauses. “When it was all over you.”
I take another sip, suppressing the rage. “You missed the vanilla,” I say, feeling petty now.
He smiles. “Next time.”
I laugh humourlessly through my nose, not missing the way he’s looking at me. It’s the same way I was looking at him when I thought this could still be a meet-cute.
“Well,” I say. “Thank you, but you can go now.”
He clearly stifles a laugh. “I can’t actually.” I study his face as he continues. “This is my flight too.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”
