"I don't know, I don't know who that is," she said, handing me back the paper.
She wouldn't have, I suppose, she was much too young. Two years made a hell of a difference in the 90's. Like dog years, those. Everyone acted like dogs, anyway.
I gave up trying to convince her; her distant eyes marked that she'd checked out of my futile efforts since we sat down at breakfast. I knew that, but I still wanted to try. I always tried, why did I always try?
I closed Instagram, the meme ceased to exist. Even if she had known, it would've still shriveled up in our memories by the time the waiter walked around again. Such a disposable medium - not even disposable, just poofed from existence, like it saw itself out of the doors of life.
My orange juice was running late. She'd already downed her mimosa. I felt like it should've been easier to just get me my OJ, single ingredient, than fulfilling her mimosa order, double ingredient, before mine. My headache was starting to creep on me; sugar, ironically, always helped to keep it at bay. At least until I had some food in me. Once I had eaten, my body knew it was safe to go to hell - at least it knew I wouldn't die from malnourishment.
We were one of four tables in the brunch joint. Covid, I would have guessed, but turns out there was some festival happening just down the street that had suctioned up all the regulars.
And they still couldn't get me my OJ more quickly. Guess the staff must've gone, too.
She orders waffles. I order omelettes. We don't really share. I hate sweet foods. She hates eggs.
Somehow we get along great.