She liked the person who invited her to the event, and so she did not entirely regret going, because it seemed like a good strategic move… the thing was that the event turned out to be this guy just talking about himself in front of his friends, reading this book he wrote about how his life was so unique because he lived in a small town where trees had turned blue – her opportunities to demonstrate value to the person who invited her were slim.
One of these opportunities was to look really interested when the author said something that she thought her friend might like, in the chance that her friend might look at her and believe that she liked the thing, too: Something they could share. The flaw in this logic was that the person speaking in front of the crowd wasn’t saying anything that she thought might interest her friend- he was just going on about some political justice thing that he was never the victim of, but apparently felt that he was permitted to act as their spokesperson. The guy, like an elephant, showing off his toy, was an egomaniac: And it wasn’t that she didn’t get what he was saying: She got his arguments, even as they veered off in these dry monologues: She even knew a considerable amount of literary theory, and had graduated from her Bachelor of Arts with Distinguished Honours after publishing Freudian Theory in the Broader Canadian Context: Proustian Reflections in the Post-Referendum Era.
Even her friend seemed disinterested, and he liked the guy: You’d think it would bias him somewhat… Maybe his absolute disinterest is in fact the result of that bias, whereas his reaction to a stranger doing the same thing might have been to just get up and leave the damned basement, she thought.
The author stopped speaking about himself, for a second, to allow questions from the audience, about himself. There was something, there- an opportunity to show how articulate she was: To stun the crowd with a brilliant question. Her hand flung up.
Her friend looked to her. He wondered if she had known the author, and considered, dryly, that they might have dated, a potentiality that struck him as unfortunate, seeing how it would clash with his policy to never date someone who has dated his friend at any point in the entirety of their lives, I don’t care if it’s childish it’s my opinion. Jealousy brought him to recognize that he liked her, the feeling that she was his to be owned, and not the other way around – all the author’s nice words aside, he just wasn’t her type.
Yes- you in the back- with the witch-like hat- go ahead.
Where the fuck do you get off?
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Marta Monteiro