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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2Ft07hp:
Dude and I went grocery shopping. It went well, we got a lot done fast.
As we checked out we were in line behind a middle-aged woman in a sequined jacket, which I admired. I didn’t say anything to her, though; I ran back out to get something, leaving dude in line, and when I came back she was nearly done.
Behind us was a young professional looking Black man who had 100% healthy things. Like, a bag of avocadoes, a large tub of plain Greek yogurt, granola, bell peppers, everything was vegetables and plain dairy and whole grain shit. I bent and ran into his cart with my butt at one point, so I turned to apologize, and noticed his stuff, and as we were leaving I said, to him and the cashier, “what a healthy grocery run!” as I tried to pile my frozen pizza and giant styrofoam tray of whole chicken leg quarters and giant pile of chocolate candy bars into my cart.
(Food is morally neutral, sure, but like. My stuff wasn’t even that bad! I just. You know. I’m making lasagna this week. I already had the spinach at home! I bought vegetables! I just, also bought random shit.)
My dude acted horrified that I was judging people by their groceries, but then admitted he does all the time. He makes up stories about people, he explained.
Like what? I asked. Like, the lady in front of us with the sparkly–
I hated her, he interrupted. She was stuck-up and kind of mean.
Was she really, I asked.
No, he said, that’s the story I made up, though. I got that energy off her.
I pressed him for more information. I know he lives a pretty rich inner life, but I mean. We’ve been together 16 years but sometimes my extremely rich inner life overrides my understanding of him, so. I asked for more details.
Well, he said. I make up stories about the people I see in my building at work.
Like what, I asked.
The sixth floor is a hoax, he explained. They don’t have mailboxes in the mailroom. Everything but the elevator lobby is locked, on that floor. Glass doors. What are they hiding? A smiling bald man followed me while I was on my walk. He took the elevator from the sixth to the tenth floor. Why would anyone do that? I think the janitor is in on it; he befriended me but I think it’s a ploy to get me to confide that I know that the sixth floor isn’t legit.
Uh, I said. Your uh. Your stories about people are a lot more, uh. Paranoid than mine.
Just because you’re paranoid, he said sagely, don’t mean they’re not out to get you.
(Your picture was not posted)
Dude and I went grocery shopping. It went well, we got a lot done fast.
As we checked out we were in line behind a middle-aged woman in a sequined jacket, which I admired. I didn’t say anything to her, though; I ran back out to get something, leaving dude in line, and when I came back she was nearly done.
Behind us was a young professional looking Black man who had 100% healthy things. Like, a bag of avocadoes, a large tub of plain Greek yogurt, granola, bell peppers, everything was vegetables and plain dairy and whole grain shit. I bent and ran into his cart with my butt at one point, so I turned to apologize, and noticed his stuff, and as we were leaving I said, to him and the cashier, “what a healthy grocery run!” as I tried to pile my frozen pizza and giant styrofoam tray of whole chicken leg quarters and giant pile of chocolate candy bars into my cart.
(Food is morally neutral, sure, but like. My stuff wasn’t even that bad! I just. You know. I’m making lasagna this week. I already had the spinach at home! I bought vegetables! I just, also bought random shit.)
My dude acted horrified that I was judging people by their groceries, but then admitted he does all the time. He makes up stories about people, he explained.
Like what? I asked. Like, the lady in front of us with the sparkly–
I hated her, he interrupted. She was stuck-up and kind of mean.
Was she really, I asked.
No, he said, that’s the story I made up, though. I got that energy off her.
I pressed him for more information. I know he lives a pretty rich inner life, but I mean. We’ve been together 16 years but sometimes my extremely rich inner life overrides my understanding of him, so. I asked for more details.
Well, he said. I make up stories about the people I see in my building at work.
Like what, I asked.
The sixth floor is a hoax, he explained. They don’t have mailboxes in the mailroom. Everything but the elevator lobby is locked, on that floor. Glass doors. What are they hiding? A smiling bald man followed me while I was on my walk. He took the elevator from the sixth to the tenth floor. Why would anyone do that? I think the janitor is in on it; he befriended me but I think it’s a ploy to get me to confide that I know that the sixth floor isn’t legit.
Uh, I said. Your uh. Your stories about people are a lot more, uh. Paranoid than mine.
Just because you’re paranoid, he said sagely, don’t mean they’re not out to get you.
(Your picture was not posted)
