IT WAS ICE CREAM!!!
So you're at a party, right? And one of your friends is like, "Hey, I want you meet a friend of mine. We go way back." So you meet her. She seems fun. You chat with her, just making small talk really, and the conversation is actually enjoyable. She's regaling you with crazy stories and she's a great storyteller. You're kind of envious of that.
As the months pass you see her around more often. In fact, she's slowly being integrated into your circle of friends. And if you were to be honest with yourself, you like having her around. Sure, she's kind of an attention hog and she says stuff sometimes that make you pause and scratch your head ("Did you know that spaghetti was actually invented by the Ethiopians in 84 B.C.?" or "You can *totally* tell if a guy is packing by the size of his left knee cap. Trust me.") but she's a good time. You can tolerate her brand of crazy because, well, you're usually too drunk to notice. All you really remember is that she was there and you laughed a lot. That's enough for you.
You had debated with your friends over dinner which bar to head to for a nightcap. You pushed for that casual wine bar down the street, knowing that you could probably get a nice large table, split some moderately priced wine, and sit and talk with your friends as Johnny Cash played in the background. A nice quiet night with friends, you thought. Adult.
She wasn't on board. She got her way. She always got her way. Annoyed, you caved.
That twinge of annoyance would open the floodgates in your mind as to how horrible a person she actually was. She dragged the group to the cheesiest club in town where the boys wore tight black v-neck Armani t-shirts (you know, because if it's Armani than it's not *just* a t-shirt) or pressed, untucked, striped button-up shirts (as if untucking the shirt would hide the fact that they no longer had the metabolism to burn off all those beer calories), and the girls wore what can only be described as a one-piece bandana. Despite your crinkled nose and roll of the eyes, you went in to the deafening sounds of bass and Fergie. Remixing does not a Black Eyed Pea save.
She's a complete mess. She's barking at the bartender to the point that you feel compelled to make eye contact with him to offer your silent shrugging apologies. As she tumbles away from the bar with some neon concoction, you sheepishly slip the bartender another $20, hoping that your small offering will clear your conscience and make amends with the cosmos.
A song comes on. She screams a blood-curling scream. She throws her purse in your direction because she's accurately identified you as that girl. You're the one who will patiently wait this out and hold her shit. She's right. And you curse her under your breath for that.
Hours pass. You're back at the bar, scream-talking with the bartender, reveling in the fact that you are the only two sane and sober people in the club. You pat yourself on the back for your earlier tithe. A small price to pay for the safety net being offered by your new tattooed friend. You scan the room to try and find her.
You check the bathroom, pushing your way past all the drunk girls, some leaning, some sobbing, all reeking of pathetic desperation, and call her name. Nothing. You walk outside. Nothing. You circle the club, peering into every dark and seedy corner, hoping (and not) that you find her. You shoot a confused look back to your tattooed bar minder. He shrugs and shakes his head.
You're over it. You're going home.
You rest your head against the bolster of the cab, chiding yourself for even being worried. She's an adult. Whatever. But you're worried. You're still worried as you slowly walk up your stairs and unlock the door. And you're still worried as you climb into bed to put an end to a pathetic night.
You wake up on your own accord in the morning and attempt to piece together your night. As it slowly comes together you hear a faint buzzing. You ignore it, thinking it's just the hum in your ears from being subjected to that godawful excuse for dance music from the night before. You hear it again.
Oh, fuck. Her phone.
You burst from your bed and scramble to find her purse. You curse it because it is her only real connection to you right now and it's the reason you stayed at that damn club until closing time.
Hello? Hey. Where are...uh huh. Ok. No, I was there. I stayed until closing time. I looked for you. Yes, all your stuff is still here. Well I'm supposed to meet someone for brunch and I can drop it off lat--... um, ok. Well I guess I can drop it off now. Ok.
You cancel your plans and head out the door. As rude as she was and as inconvenienced as you are, you're just anxious and excited to do the exchange and get her out of your life. You pull up to her apartment and head to her front door. With each step you wonder how someone can be this inconsiderate? This selfish? This impossible? This tactless? This unreasonable? This...dumb?
And that's when you meet her mother. And after she chides you for abandoning her daughter alone at a bar on a Saturday night, calls you irresponsible and unfeeling, tells you her daughter could have been raped or killed because of you, demands you hand over the purse so she can count the money left in the wallet, and slams the door in your face, you stand there stunned into silence.
And then you smile a wry grin.
The apple don't fall far from the tree.