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A Tale of Two Hipsters

A Tale of Two Hipsters

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Published by beak2008
Two hipsters, one blind date. Written by Beatrice Kilat.
Two hipsters, one blind date. Written by Beatrice Kilat.

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Published by: beak2008 on Jul 04, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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07/04/2011

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A TALE OF TWO HIPSTERSIt was the best of times; it was the worst of times.It was the age of parents¶ paying credit card bills; it was the age of no money. It was theepoch of liberal beliefs; it was the epoch of not watching the news.It was the year of our President Barack Obama and the origin of the NOH8 Campaign.Moments after entering the dimly lit restaurant, Lucille Wallace regretted choosing towear her black stiletto combat boots. Gingerly, she spiked her way across a wooden floor litteredwith peanut shells, grabbing on to the backs of cow-hide lined chairs at random intervals to avoidslipping.The entire restaurant reeked of steak sauce and grilled meat. Tables that had yet to be bussed were lined with untouched salads and used plates, still holding their full servings of assorted vegetables and remnants of potatoes. In her white skinny jeans and tiger emblazonedoff-the-shoulder t-shirt, she looked nothing like the typical patron of such a place.After stumbling through the dining room and murmuring a few curses and prayers tovarious gods, she spotted whom she assumed to be her date at a corner table in the back.Assumed because every other table was filled with at least three people.Oh no, she thought. He¶s the only one sitting alone in this entire restaurant. Is this afamily place? Oh God, our waitress is going to assume we¶re married and we¶re going to have tocorrect her. What if he corrects her first and uses a tone to suggest that he doesn¶t wantto bemarried to me? Even though I could not want to be married to him. For all I know his familycould have a history of mental illness or voting conservatively. For all he knows, I could noteven believe in the institution of marriage. Or, maybe I¶m waiting until gay marriage is legalized
 
to even consider getting married. And of course he¶s in the back. Of course. Because it wouldn¶t be a night out if I wasn¶t forced to endure some type of humiliation, like walking a mile across afloor littered with peanut shells in inappropriate shoes. How long have I been walking? Ishould¶ve brought a pedometer; I might not even have to go to the gym tomorrow. I think I hatehim. Oh God, what if he hates me? If the waitress asks, I¶ll correct her first.She paused and clutched the back of an occupied seat, realizing that she only had a fewminutes, at most, to decide whether or not she wanted to ditch this date.She considered her options: there was still time to catch the live broadcast of that singingcompetition²you know, the one with the washed up pop star judge from the 80s and the meanguy?But there wasn¶t anything to eat at home.Order in? She thought, imagining the decadence of placing an order of heaping piles of lomein, egg rolls and, if she was being honest with herself, probably a couple orders of crabrangoons, too. All for one person. Was this guy going to be able topthat?Her datewas studying the menu, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration behindthick rimmed black glasses. His head was just slightly bent down, enough so that Lucille couldsee he had a full head of black hair.Virile, she thought.He was thin, but not in a way that would make her feel self-conscious about her ownweight, she thought with relief. He wore a loosely buttoned chambray oxford shirt, rolled upthree-quarters length and complemented by a yellow plastic Swatch on his wrist. His front shirt pocket held a pack of American Spirits.Hip.
 
She ran her hands through her dyed black hair, intentionally flipping her bangs to oneside and began to approach him. As she walked away from her balancing post, the man whoseseat she had been holding on to whispered to his family: ³What the fuck was that about?´ Butshe couldn¶t hear him.Her date looked up from the menu and watched her approach, slowly wobbling through afield of peanut debris. She stopped at the table at exactly the moment her bangs fell back into place, sweeping over her kohl lined eyes in a way that she liked to believe gave her an aura of mystery. She smiled and tilted her head, letting her hair obscure half her face.³I¶m Lucille,´ she said.³Your eye is beautiful.´³Thank you,´ she said, sliding into the booth and taking his menu. She leaned over thetable and began to speak in a mock-serious tone. ³I want you to know that I¶m vegan and this place is entirely inappropriate.´³Good, because I only come here for the booze,´ he said. ³I¶m Sydney.´³What are we drinking, Sydney?´He took the menu and scanned it for a moment.³Budweiser.´³American,´ she said. ³Is it on special?´³Never.´³Wonderful,´ she said.³Great,´ he said.³Where¶s our waitress?´³Good question,´ he said, turning to look around the restaurant. ³Nurse?´

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