Sometime after midnight
Another excursion to the coffee house
. On the way there, a car hit me from behind, the same way the only other accident Iâ€™ve been in happened. I was crawling forward waiting for an opening to make a right on a red light
, and the guy behind me thinks Iâ€™m taking off and hits the gas without looking to see if Iâ€™m still fucking there. Last time, it was a giant truck that mangled the shit out of my trunk and scared the hell out of me. This time, itâ€™s just a nudge really, a little paint scrape, thatâ€™s all. Barely phased me. The guy was a nice (hell, the fact that he actually pulled over made him nice in my book) Pakistani
gent with his family, and we traded phone numbers so I can hit him up for a check later. Probably wonâ€™t cost that much, especially since my father is tight with people at the car dealer
. Still, Iâ€™m pissed. Itâ€™s the principle of the thing. For years, Iâ€™ve gone (with the exception of the fender bender
with the truck) accident free, and now a brand new car, one month off the lot, and I get hit. Why couldnâ€™t it have been the shitty hatchback
I drove in high school
? One of the used Corolla
s with the rubber bumper
s? Noooooâ€¦. Instant karma
â€™s gonna get ya!
The coffee house is dead tonight. I guess the Partridge Family
has a big following, but not many have turned out to see the Indigo Girls
. (Well, the Indigo Girls if they were in their 20s and called Starfish
.) Lots of middle aged couples and their kids for some reason; I guess itâ€™s spillover
from the dollar theater
next door. I finished Dave Eggers
â€™ book, so now Iâ€™ve shamelessly brought along the new Harry Potter
tome, on loan from Sylvar
. Besides, with all the kids there, I may be the only person in the joint who hasnâ€™t read it yet.
If you havenâ€™t guessed already, the coffee house girl
was not there again. I think she no longer works there, and I suspect the place may be under new management
, though I have no way of knowing for sure. A lot of the same employees, the same musical acts, just a hunch, really. I hate to inquire about her â€“ thatâ€™s asking to be labeled as a stalker
. I have her number around here somewhere. I should grow a spine
and just call. But I hate using the phone for just about anything, much less something like this.
The couples and kids leave after an hour or so, and the place is nearly deserted, just the employees, a small bunch of older people who know each other, and me curled up with Harry Potter. Not the usual crowd here, but then Iâ€™ve been away for a while. Closing time
comes too soon, right at the exciting part, when the Goblet of Fire
â€¦. Hey, Iâ€™m not gonna spoil it â€“ read it yourself!
When I get home, my front door is covered in frogs
. I wonder if there is any magical
significance to this.