I’m mopping behind front counter at work. Its busy as hell. Suddenly a hot and angry blond girl approaches the counter and singles me out.
“I know you,” she said with more conviction than I ever recall having encountered before.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “I lived next door to you. I’ve known you since I was a kid. You’re the atheist guy.”
You were never my neighbor, I think to myself, but I am an indeed an atheist, and so I would assume you know of me, if nothing else.
And then she starts confessing to me like I’m an atheist priest. How she has called corporate five times, how they always kick her out when she comes in here, and so on. It seems as if I am her only friend in the world. As if I’m the only one behind this counter who’s throat she wouldn’t slit if given half the chance.
For awhile I just talked with her, tried to calm her down. Her eye contact was impressive. Still, as strangely strong as the connection seemed between her and I, her hatred for the rest remained blazing.
Eventually I walked away and snuck out the back door for a cigarette — just in time to see the cop pull in. She came out if the building, talking to the cop, and her eyes kept meeting mine.
Back inside, they referred to her as my “girlfriend.” Evidently, as I was told later, she was drunk and was wearing a swimsuit under her open shirt. She was hot, so I find it strange that I didn’t notice. The eyes had me coming back, methinks.
Sometimes I feel like one of those video logs they splice between the unscripted action on a typically bad reality show where people confess what they don’t feel comfortable expressing to the group. Or a godless priest, a walking confessional.
It’s not such a bad role to play.