Talk to me, Ginger.
That was pronounced “Geeng-Ger” by the way, not “Gin-Jur”.
Yesterday I had to wait for a friend at a bookstore he works at. I’d left my phone at his place and needed to get it back, so I was there for maybe an hour. Myself and a store full of strangers, self being uncharacteristically bouncy and high and absolutely chatty.
“That’s a good book. Have you seen the documentary?”
“Browsing, eh?”
“Still browsing? Ha ha.”
Two hours later. We are sitting in the Gay Erotica section, legs splayed as to selfishly claim the aisle as ours. He had kind of long, carrot-orange hair, and was tall and lean like a spaghetti noodle. He more or less matched my mental image of Ron Weasley, in short.
Our legs touched kinda at the upper thigh; not sexual, not flirtatiously, not the way adults are, but like middle schoolers slow dancing for the first time. It was all very casual and innocent, I loved it. We took turns reading funny lines to each other and he told me he was going to a private school to be a history teacher and I told him I was going to community college to be a librarian.
He finally had to go meet his friend and I had to stay to wait for mine. We shook hands; his were sweaty and clammy, and his grin was the kind that reaches the eyes rather than just the mouth.
I love boys like that. The “Nice Jewish Boys”.
I could never be with a Nice Jewish Boy for a number of reasons, but, God. I love ‘em.
