His ears tinge pink. “I’m fascinated to have met someone who’d wade through sewage to see a movie they’ve never heard of, so sue me.”
For the next two hours we trade our interests and disinterests like kids swapping baseball cards, all while my driving playlist cycles through on shuffle in the background. If there are any other saxophone-heavy songs, neither of us notices.
I tell him that I love watching videos of mismatched animal friendships.
He tells me he hates seeing both flip-flops and displays of affection in public. “Feet should be private,” he insists.
“You need help,” I tell him, but I can’t stop laughing, and even as he mines his strangely specific tastes for my amusement, that shade of humor keeps hiding in the corner of his mouth.
Like he knows he’s ridiculous.
Like he doesn’t mind at all that I’m delighted by his strangeness.
I admit that I hate both Linfield and khakis, because why not?
We both already know the measure of things: we’re two people with no business spending any time together, let alone spending an extended amount of it crammed into a tiny car.
We are two fundamentally incompatible people with absolutely no need to impress each other.
“No,” I say, “I think that just comes naturally for us.”
“I just mean that for you, it seems like a themed party might as well just be a Tuesday. But for me, it means I stand in front of my closet for, like, two hours trying to figure out how to look like a dead celebrity out of my ten identical shirts and five identical pants.”
“You could try . . . not buying your clothes in bulk,” I suggest. “Or you can just wear your khakis and tell everyone you’re going as a flasher.”
He makes a repulsed grimace but otherwise ignores my comment.
“I hate the decision making of it all,” he says, waving the suggestion off. “And if I try to go buy a costume it’s even worse. I’m so overwhelmed by malls. There’s just too much. I don’t even know how to choose a store, let alone a rack. I have to buy all my clothes online, and once I find something I like, I’ll order five more of them right away.”
“Well, if you ever get invited to a themed party where you’re sure there will be no flip-flops, PDA, or sax and thus you’re able to attend,” I say, “I’d be happy to take you shopping.”
“Are you being serious?” His eyes flick from the road to me. It started getting dark out at some point without my noticing, and Joni Mitchell’s mournful voice is cooing out over the speakers now, her song “A Case of You.”
“Of course I’m serious,” I say. We might have nothing in common, but I’m starting to enjoy myself. All year I’ve felt like I had to be on my best behavior, like I was auditioning(to try or compete in an audition) for new friendships, new identities, a new life.
But strangely, I feel none of that here. Plus . . . I love shopping.
“It’d be great,” I go on. “You’d be like my living Ken doll.” I lean forward and turn the volume up a bit. “Speaking of things I love: this song.”
“This is one of my karaoke songs,” Alex says.
I bust into a guffaw(a loud, unrestrained burst of laughter), but from his chagrined expression, I quickly gather that he’s not joking, which makes it even better.
“I’m not laughing at you,” I promise quickly. “I actually think it’s adorable.”
“Adorable?” I can’t tell if he’s confused or offended.
“No, I just mean . . .” I stop, roll the window down a little to let a breeze into the car. I pull my hair up off my sweaty neck and tuck it up between my head and the headrest. “You’re just . . .” I search for a way to explain it. “Not who I thought, I guess.”
His brow creases. “Who did you think I was?”
So I have no problem saying, “Khakis just make a person look like they’re both pantsless and void of a personality.”
“They’re durable, and they match everything,” Alex argues.
“You know, sometimes with clothes, it’s not a matter of whether something can be worn but whether it should be worn.”
Alex waves the thought away. “And as for Linfield,” he says, “what’s your problem with it? It’s a great place to grow up.”
This is a more complicated question with an answer I don’t feel like sharing, even with someone who’s going to drop me off in several hours and never think of me again.
“Linfield is the khakis of Midwestern cities,” I say.
“Comfortable,” he says, “durable.”
“Naked from the waist down.”
Alex tells me he hates themed parties. Leather cuff bracelets and pointy shoes with squared-off toes.
When you show up somewhere and some friend or uncle makes the joke “They’ll let anyone in here!”
When servers call him bud or boss or chief. Men who walk like they just got off a horse. Vests, on anyone, in any scenario.
The moment when a group of people are taking pictures and someone says, “Should we do a silly one?”
“I love themed parties,” I tell him.
“Of course you do,” he says. “You’re good at them.”
I narrow my eyes at him, put my feet on the dashboard, then take them back down when I see the anxious creases at the corners of his mouth. “Are you stalking me, Alex?” I ask.
He shoots me a horrified look. “Why would you say something like that?”
His expression makes me cackle again. “Relax, I’m kidding. But how do you know I’m ‘good at’ themed parties? I’ve seen you at one party, and it was not themed.”
“It’s not about that,” he says. “You’re just . . . always sort of in costume.” He hurries to add, “I don’t mean in a bad way. You’re just always dressed pretty . . .”
“Amazing?” I supply.
“Confidently,” he says.
“What a surprisingly loaded compliment,” I say.
He sighs. “Are you misunderstanding me on purpose?”
《People We Meet on Vacation》
by Emily Henry 从朋友到恋人
只是搬运工加个人笔记。
