“So what kind of music do you like, Rox?”
The girl looked as if her brain got stuck for a second. Then she twitched, her red curls bounced around her pale freckled face. “Huh?”
That gave her enough time to think.
“What kind of music do you like, Rox?”
“Green,” she said, and then she laughed. A little too long, ever for her own taste.
“Yeah, that’s rad,” he said. “Are you trying so hard to be original, or are you just retarded.”
She looked confused. “I didn’t know you would find what I say original. I like music that makes me feel all green inside. And everything is green.”
“You mean like an environmental thing?”
“Uh-huh, if you want.”
They were sitting inside a Starbucks. People around them were either flirting, or flirting online on their handhelds and macs. It was the month of love, and she had to get some live to put a roof over her head for the coming cold.
“Yeah, I guess you are pretty original. I mean, it doesn’t matter if it’s fake or for real. What does it mean ‘real,’ anyway?”
“It means you don’t plan it?”
“So like,” he thought for a second, “So like, you say criptic stuff knowing I won’t understand without trying to come off as original. That must mean you either don’t care if I understand, therefore you’re a douchebag, or you are unable to relate to my point of view and, therefore, retarded.”
“If I was like other people, I would take offence,” she said, all angry inside, ready to lash out on this clown. And he could feel she was mad. Darn, mistake!
“Yeah, obviously, you’re not like other people. You’re special,” he said in a tone that made it impossible to say whether he was being ironic or placating.
She hoped she could have bigger tits, so she would not have to rely on her wit all the time. She was original all right, but some people just did not get it.