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Okay, so that part isn’tentirelytrue. While yes, I have never really found one with substance, I also haven’t been looking. Why would I when I’m having so much damn fun?
What can I say, I love pussy. Specifically different pussy. Like every fucking damn day if I can get it.
“The media paints this picture and people blindly believe it. Yes, there’s almost always truth to it, but it’s not the whole truth.” I shake my head.
“I think I might have struck a nerve.” Her words are soft, but her expression says she’s not convinced that my rant was anything more than bullshit.
“It takes a hell of a lot more than that to strike a nerve with me.” I let an easy smile slide across my lips.
“So you say.” She studies me intently.
“Now,” I clear my throat. “Tell me more about you.” I lean forward, eager to take the focus off of me, which usually isn’t my M.O. “Why aren’t you married?”
“Why am I not married?” She seems a little caught off guard by my question.
“What? You aren’t married.” I point out the facts. “Is there a reason? Are you not interested? Or just haven’t found the right person?”
After a brief bout of silence passes between us, she finally speaks.
“Maybe a little bit of both. I’ve dated. Had some semi-serious relationships. But I had something to prove to my dad, and I didn’t want to let a man get in the way of that. So I guess I hadn’t really been looking for anything serious.”
“And have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Proven whatever you set out to prove to your dad?”
“Yes… I mean, I think so.” She seems almost uncomfortable which is a far cry from the confident, self-assured woman she’s shown me thus far.
“And what was it that you wanted to prove to your dad?”
“That I’m not my mother.” She catches my expression and shrugs. “It’s complicated.”
“But correct me if I’m wrong, aren’t your parents still married?”
“They are.” She nods slowly.
“Let me guess… It’s complicated?” I repeat her words.
She smiles, and for the first time it seems genuine.
“Something like that.”
“And your skepticism of celebrities, where does that stem from?” I can’t help but feel like the two are somehow related, though I have zero proof of that.
“I wouldn’t say I’m skeptical of celebrities so much as certain types of men.”
“And you think I’m one of those men,” I state the obvious.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Maybeyouthink you’re one of those men?” She phrases it like a question even though it feels more like a statement.
I open my mouth to respond but snap it closed when yet another person approaches our table. This time a teenage boy who is no doubt a Dodgers fan, and a man that I would guess is his father.
And just like that, the conversation is over.
