The last exchange with the copier repair guy from Arkansas

Thursday, 10 April 2003

One afternoon in ’Burque betwixt the churning Konica 7090s someone brought up one Ms. Taos First-Time. I admit that even several years after the fact, it was still a name I didn’t want to hear. And it would take some pages to describe why you shouldn’t mind what I said and why it wasn’t just about seeing her on top of what’s-his-name at Kristi’s party, so we’ll just let you mind. Though if you care, it was rooted in my first tortured stab at pillow-talk becoming fodder for Trent’s same.

I said, “Don’t even talk about that fucking bitch around me.”

The copier repair guy fresh in town from 3 states and 15 cultures away said, “Hey! Don’t you talk about her that way.”

I turned to him, put my hand on my hip, and said, “You know Erin?”

“Yeah.”

“You know Erin Solari?”

“Yeah. She’s a friend of mine.”

I shook my head: “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

He had nothing to say. I said to the room, “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” And we stopped talking about it.

It wasn’t the last time I talked with him, though. That came a few weeks later when a stunning black girl walked past the shop’s bay windows. And I said, “Oh, my God! Did you see that girl? She was so gorgeous.”

He said, “Ew, sick! You just like those baggy lips.”

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