7/29
I am going to a party at Haverford with a few friends, and the second we step off the train and barrel down in a line down this deserted suburban road, we are almost lost. This is not the Main Line I have come to know. The trees are thousands of feet tall, and the houses are all far back from the main road, and we are going to this party I don’t want to go to.
Beforehand, as my friends and I are getting ready, I pull one of them (a combination of two dissimilar real-life friends) aside to explain. “It’s awkward,” I stress, looking at the other girls adjust their summer dresses and cleavage, carefully apply lipstick. “I watch guys come up to them, and I see what I don’t have, and it doesn’t bother me that I don’t have it—it bothers me that they can’t live without the attention,” I gesture to the friends making faces in the mirror. Friend shakes her head at me, and I feel bad for having opinions, and decide to be less opinionated.
At Haverford, after the walk down the road, we arrive at this red bricked house and walk in through the front door after dropping our shoes on the porch. Inside the house is like an oven, and my glasses fog inside. I wipe them on my shirt to no avail, and then attempt to squint through the smudged lenses. I can see nothing but shadowy figures move across the room, drinking and stumbling. I sigh, try to make my way to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I try to find beer, but there is none. I am frustrated that I can’t even drink myself out of this situation, and leave the house. The house next door is a Wawa and an ice cream parlor, and I buy a half-gallon of milk and, sitting on the steps outside, I guzzle it a little. I don’t know where anyone has gone.
Suddenly, an old friend appears, and we begin to chat. After some time, we walk back to the road and continue further on, over a stone bridge and a small stream. I can see us walking, suddenly, from a third-person perspective, and it almost looks like a Monet painting. We talk, and I lean back over the side of the bridge, and look out over the water upside down, letting my breathing slow, trying my best not to fall asleep and fall on my head and die.
When I sit back up, my friend has gone, and some members of the cast of Heroes are in his place. We all have a discussion on something I forget, but I do know I am surprised they are there, and angry they are douches. And then I very drunk, and have suddenly remembered I am late for my gynecologist’s appointment.
So I run, run down the street, run and run and run, my legs so long my strides are almost like short flight, running and running and running, and when I step inside the office and rush into my appointment, my old friend is there, and my doctor is waiting too, and she asks me how the ring is, and I pull it out nonchalantly as though to say, “See? It works.” I do not hesitate to do this in front of the male friend and he blushes, turns his head awkwardly, and I slump in my seat, unhappy.
