"Brent!" I holler over the bar. He turns, makes eye contact with me, and smiles. I get up from my seat and I push through the people until we meet in the middle. We hug -- it's what you do if you haven't seen a friend in six years. We talked for maybe 30 seconds before SHE came swooping in. THE WIFE.
"Jamie, I want you to meet my wife (insert generic name here)," he says.
I smile and shake her hand, but inside I'm rolling my eyes. She saw us hug and talk from across the bar and is showing up to make sure her man is on good behavior. She looks at me expectantly."Brent and I went to high school together. We did drama and newspaper and he made me my first fake ID in college," I say. I hate myself for doing that. She was waiting to see how we knew each other and I gave her what she wanted. She smiles bigger, delighting in the fact that she knows her man is safe from the likes of me. She has big white horse teeth.
I wish I was the kind of person that had the audacity to inch in a little closer to Brent and say, "Oh Brent and I go way back," and giggle a naughty giggle. "Hey, remember the time we spent all night in the theatre and the police came?"
Completely innocent of course, but she wouldn't know that.
I just hate the girls that feel a need to hover over their
I even think I felt the attitude from her acrylic nails. The whole I'm-married-and-you're-in-a-glitter-shirt-holding-a-martini attitude. The we're-cool-cause-we-grew-up-and-moved-to-the-'burbs attitude.
The conversation ended there. My mind was preoccupied hating her so much that I couldn't think of anything else to say. Questions like "So what are you doing now?" completely eluded me. I take a long drink from my martini while staring at them, nod, and say, "This was great, we should do it again some time," and walked away before they could respond.
