I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Cade and I were at White Horse Tavern in The Village on Friday night to celebrate my friend Julia’s birthday. On his way to the bar, Cade spotted Malcolm Gladwell, who Cade only knows as “that guy who was on iTunes talking about chunky pasta sauce.” I quickly walked over and stared at him, trying to match the picture on the back of Blink with the skinny afro’d guy at the nearest table.
I’m flipping through tv channels as I eat dinner. On VH1, two random people sit together on a beach and gaze deeply into each other’s eyes. Romantic music plays in the background. Something beautiful is about to be shared.
Cade and I are complaining about how neither of us have slept very well in recent days.
The host of the comedy show takes the stage to introduce the next comic. He scans the room, looking for something to say, and sees an elderly woman has joined the group of people on the front right side of the room.
Host: Yeah… Oh, hey! You’re new here, aren’t you?
I’m having a quick conference with Sal, one of my most charming, if confused, students.
Me: Sal, do you know what text you’re going to choose for your fluency assessment? You’re going to have to read it out loud.
My dad overhears my cousin Jessica, age three, say she hates something.
Alexus sneezes a powerful, snot wringing sneeze. I motion to the box of Kleenex on the table behind Bernice.
I silently pass out the information session pamphlet entitled “Sex Education For Your Child” to my Advisory students, anticipating the instant face-cortorting reactions.
In the magical box above the newscaster’s right shoulder, a mug shot appears.
Him: Wanna hang out tonight?
Me: I dunno. Do you?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Again?
Him: Yeah. Lately all these extra warm and fuzzy feelings for you are bubbling inside me.
