Astrid wears a homemade Jake Gyllenhaal t-shirt when she’s scared and alone during thunderstorms. She named all four of her stuffed animals Jake.
She told me this and I laughed. My first thought was, You’re fucked up.
On the way home that night, I saw a couple in the window of a pizzeria. They had their fingers laced. He was all over her. She was feeding him a slice of sloppy, greasy donair.
A retch came up fast from my midstomach. It cast an echo against the glass. But they didn’t look up. I watched as she laughed so hard that cream sauce sprayed onto his shirt.
I waited to see what he would do. Yell. Jump up and back away. He would take off his shirt and throw it on the floor. This girl was obviously drunk. Nobody is that fucking happy sober.
He looked down and laughed. He pulled her closer. He wiped the grease off her lips. He kissed her. They looked into each other’s eyes when the quick kiss was done.
Boring. I turned away and continued walking through the afterbar crowds.
Why did Astrid tell me that?
I would never reveal anything so embarrassing.