We decided to start somewhere new instead of taking a chance on my water logged hometown. Prior to the move, we had only spent time in Flagstaff, Arizona, Scottsdale’s patchouli laden, hiking boot wearing Northern cousin. Snottsdale, as the locals called it, wore stiletto heels and Chanel No. 5. Her boyfriend drove a Hummer and wore sunglasses at night.
As I sipped on my caramel mocha latte, the couple sitting across from us piqued my curiosity. They were clearly on a blind date, and judging by the reverse magnetism of their body language, sparks weren’t flying.
“So,” he asked her, readjusting his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Do you have a carport or a garage?”
“I have a garage.” she said, uncrossing her arms just long enough to push her long blonde mane out of her face.
“Oh, that’s really nice.” he replied, even more unsure of himself than before. They sat in awkward silence, anxiously waiting for a connection. Something. Anything.
“You?” She asked.
“I have a carport.”
“Oh, I used to have a carport, but now I have a garage. I like them both!” she feigned a modicum of excitement, the conversational equivalent of shoving your feet into a pair of shoes that are two sizes too small.
I leaned over to my husband, who was wrapped up in Nietzsche. “This is so painfully awkward. Are you listening to this?”
“Trying to.” he admitted.
“They must be on a blind date.”
“They’re so boring.”
“So what does that make us?”
“Judgmental and petty, because we have nothing better to do.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true.” I said, looking out the window at the dusty red mountains that loomed in the distance.
“I can guarantee that neither of them are getting laid tonight, at least not by each other.”
“Yea, that’s for sure.”
“What’s wrong with us, judging people like that?
“Eh, it’s entertaining.” he said, and we both went back to reading.