We met in a Hot Topic when I was a sophomore, me working there and her buying a dress. It had lots of zippers and the store overcharged her. I told her so, and she nodded. I don�t even know why I thought working there was a good idea in the first place: the music was too loud and, to add insult to injury, horrible; overweight prepubescent girls with too much eyeliner hit on m, and the girl who I worked with smoked too much, making my mother panic in slow motion. I resolved to leave, right there, ringing up her purchase. It was kind of a nothing meeting, if you think about it. She was nothing like Diane Keaton.
The next day I ran into her at the bank: me cashing my last Hot Topic paycheck ever, her returning a jar of nickels and dimes. The automatic changer was obnoxiously, hideously loud, but she was singing to its relentless beat. I glanced over and she smiled at me but kept singing, probably driving the clerk crazy.
We broke up about five months later; I don�t remember why. It was a silly reason, and I missed her, but then she moved elsewhere and I forgot all about her. Cruel, maybe, but an effective coping strategy. Three days ago I found her picture, hiding in the pocket of a ten year old suit jacket, along with a small pile of a flaky substance that just might have been ten year old weed.
It�s funny how completely I removed Maxine from my brain. Even though I always waste idle time by thinking about old friends and acquaintances (troublingly), I never even spared her a thought. As though she didn�t exist.
She never went to any of the reunions. She probably just didn�t bother. She was only at our school for a few years. If only Nina wasn�t so much like her!
I imagine her now, wasting time with her vapid, rock star boyfriend, wearing way too many rings and designer destroyed jeans. She probably has a good life. She probably doesn�t spend time remembering and then forgetting and then obsessing about high school gropes. Ugh.
Hello, Maxine.