Smells Like Thirty-Something
Sitting in front of us on the bus is a overweight young woman in a black hoodie and yoga pants. Perched between her legs and between a book is an iPod playing the Game of Thrones. She is both watching and texting on her large smart phone at the same time. My fiancee Jane is beside me and our down jackets still glisten from the cold rain. Lights of downtown traffic blur in the fogged windows and I quickly loose track of where we are. The young woman swats the yellow stop cord, gathers her stuff with one earphone dangling, pushes the door open and stomps into a puddle. We get off at the industrial park. As we dash down a dimly lit road, I wonder if Google Maps has played some horrible prank on us again. “No,” Jane says, “ this is it”. Two tweens are sitting at a high top table in the entranceway. One remains unmoved holding her head with her hand when we approach, “five-bucks,” the other one says. It is a “Tribute to Grunge” night and some thick Canadian boys, the band, have