Monday, May 20, 2013

Stories We Tell Ourselves

The boys arrived after we'd all been swimming, I think. High school nights were mostly spent at this house up in the hills, where my friend's parents would look the other way as long as no one drove and grades stayed markedly above average.

They had disturbed all the five or six large dogs who had been dozing happily when they rolled up with their luxury SUV, music blaring loudly. I immediately disliked them and immediately felt guilty that I'd judged them for being idiotic and rude.

As drinks were being poured, I noticed a nice box of chocolates on the counter which hadn't been there a moment before.

"Oh, how nice!" I said to my friend. "Ugh, I really am an asshole."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, breaking up an ice tray.

"Those guys came in, and I instantly thought they were meat head degenerates, but look, they brought us these nice chocolates! That's so, I don't know, polite."

My friend laughed, and said she'd pulled them out from her cupboard while I was trying, unsuccessfully, to shake hands and introduce myself.

After they left, my friend discovered that the boys had stolen all of her very ill mother's pain medications. We made pancakes the next morning and danced in the kitchen to Ella.