I hear a dripping sound. A sound that used to cause so much panic has somehow become a security blanket. Without that sound, I doubt I’d even be able to get up. My next project, my next motive. My eyes blink open, showing all the light in the world. It’s like the first time I’ve ever opened my eyes. As I’m getting out of bed, I’m still getting used to the way my eyelids work, like a butterfly pumping their wings for the first time. I follow the dripping sound. it leads to the charming Abraham Lincoln-shaped stain on my ceiling. It’s dripping water of a charming yellow-ish hue. Morning.
I travel about 3 feet to what my super described as “a luxurious and wonderfully kitsch food area”. You might say he’s a bit of an embellisher, necessarily so. In the midst of my luxurious and wonderfully kitsch meal of Berry Berry Kix, I glance up at my calendar. October seventeenth. The apocalypse.
“Here. Put this on. And try to smile.” The purple half-shirt that my sister forced me to wear to speed dating is riding up my back, a part of my back once considered nudity. Not anymore, now it’s sexy.
“Stop pulling on your shirt. You look fine.” My sister was guilted into dragging me to a speed dating event because my mother’s convinced I’m going to end up alone if I don’t get married tomorrow. Talk about a self-fulfilled prophecy.
I sit down at one of the plastic chairs. My mind wanders into wondering what goes into the planning of one of these things. Probably planned by some overly-enthusiastic woman named Amy. She’s probably un-happily married and instead of putting her energy into a divorce, she plans speed-dating events in a futile attempt to save us all.
“Hi. I’m George, I’m in architecture, I just lost my wife, and my favorite food is tofu salad.” George’s eyes darted up to the white board where “Amy” had written a few bullet points of what we could talk about. Adorable. Now I can learn everything about a person in three minutes. I’m bound to find true love here. We should have bar codes too. Just then my sister pins a name tag to my half-shirt.
“So who are you?” he says, his eyes glancing at--my name tag? I take an unenthusiastic gulp of martini. The bell rings. Oh well George. Guess you’ll never know who I am.
