Killing Time.

The restaurant was too cold. Everything about it, every single thing, was too cold. The temperature, for starters, had to be below sixty. The wall decor was uninviting and plain, and all the paintings seemed to have the color blue in them, somehow. The chairs and tables could have been made of ice, they were so cold. I felt an immense amount of sympathy for any woman in a dress or any man in short pants who thought it was a good idea to sit down. I could have been wearing a parka, and it still would've been cold.

The woman seated at the table next to me was dressed in diamonds and pearls and she looked like a walking icicle. She looked like one cold bitch, her bones showing through skin in a way that was obviously in vogue. Her lips were constantly pursed, her skin a sallow white. She looked like she didn't know the sun existed, and would have questioned you with the interrogative intensity of a bad cop if you had told her different. She picked at her food, scrutinizing every single morsel, as if it had done something horrific to herself or a family member. She wiped her red-lipstick stained mouth on a cloth napkin. I almost felt like telling her about the bacterial content of the aforementioned napkin and how she was just allowing infectious bacteria enter her mouth. I didn't.

The girl seated at the table I was sitting at, my table, had to have been rambling about some shit I just did not care to listen to or absorb for the past five or ten minutes now. The best part about living the way that I did was that I had no regard for time. I knew the difference between morning, afternoon, and nighttime, and that was about it. Specific times, specific moments... they didn't phase me. I lacked interest in keeping time. That's why I didn't own or ever care to own a watch.

I nodded and placed the proper "mhms" and "oh, yes, I totally understands" where they needed to go and I continued to think about the igloo-esque atmosphere I was in. I felt my lips turn blue. I was probably the only one thinking like this.

"So tell me about yourself."

I'm really nothing special. Really. I'm not. Just well-dressed and college-educated. I'm in a ton of debt. My parents are divorced and I spend most of my time avoiding conversations with the both of them. My mom wants to know when I'm getting married, my dad wants to know when I'm getting a real job, because "all that writing shit" is getting me nowhere, and fast, too. I live in a hotel because, fuck it, you know? I stay in a different town every month, because too many people know my name and absolutely no one cares to know my story. No one cares, because it's incredibly boring and mundane. I've lied and cheated and stolen and just been terrible all around, but I've also tried to redeem myself through volunteer work and therapy sessions and apology letters. I sometimes use a thesaurus to sound more intelligent than I really am. I'm a horrible driver. Are you bored yet?

"Oh, you know. Nothing really to tell. I have my bachelor's degree in english and I'm really close with my family. Just trying to stay as down to earth as possible, you know?"

"Oh, I totally know what you mean. My mom and I...."

And here we go again. I don't really care, plain looking girl in the plain looking dress. Half-lace, half-linen dress that you probably bought at a chain store in the mall. I'm just killing time, listening to you, planning out the perfect responses to your personal anecdotes about your life in the country / city / suburbs / what have you. Did you know that I smoked a joint on the car ride here? Probably not. You'd probably think less of me if you knew that. Or maybe not. Maybe you're high too. Maybe you're high on something else, though. You look like the kind that would do all sorts of pharmaceuticals. You know, started off saying they were for anxiety and depression, but you were just sixteen and hormonal and your boyfriend broke up with you. So you got your pills and you've been an addict ever since, but you feel normal, so you wouldn't know that. Am I right? How right am I?

"So how's your food?"

The food is just like the atmosphere. Cold. Bland. Forgettable. I'd much rather be at a diner, eating a shitty burger, and shitty fries, and a really thick milkshake which is slightly less shitty than the food, where the waitress knows my name but calls me "hun" and constantly smells like cigarettes. That'd be fucking great right now. I'd also like to be alone, and not pretend to be interested in your stories about your college roommate or your mom's spaghetti sauce or your job as the shampoo girl at a hair salon that's two blocks away from your shitty studio apartment. The fact that shampoo girls still exist boggles my mind, I thought that they were obsolete.

"It's pretty good. How's yours?"

I don't really care. I honestly don't. I'm not trying to be rude or mean but I just do not give a shit. Like I said, I'm killing time. Killing time before I have to leave again. Leaving my mark in someone else's memory, in some way, before I do this all over again in the next town. Besides, it probably sucks more than my food. I'm probably going to go to that aforementioned diner after this meal, because this food really, really sucks. It's hard for me to swallow. Kind of like my life.

The girl, the boring girl, the bland girl who's name I can't for the life of me remember, her phone rings. Right in the middle of dinner. How rude of the person calling, don't they know that she's out? She's busy right now. She looks down at her phone.

"I'm sorry, I have to take this."

She gets up from the table and leaves. I smirk to myself because I know this routine. She probably didn't have to take it at all. She was being saved from the boredom of this date, the insufferable distance between us. If this was a game show, she would've almost gotten the prize, because we were both almost finished with our collective meals. But she lost. Poor girl, she could've walked home with sixty extra bucks in her pocket for dealing with me.

I take this as my cue to leave. She can pay the bill because I didn't bring any money with me to begin with. I chuckle to myself as I leave, and the cold bitch from the table next to me stares at me, like I broke some law. Don't glare at me, lady, you're the one with the developing mouth disease from that festering bacteria on that napkin you're kissing.

I walk outside, and it's way too hot out. I'm never happy with anything.