August Sometime, 2012: Thirty-Two on Twentieth Street

This fucking hipster bar is a mess. Some nights there’s cute girls smoking cigarettes outside and some nights there’s not. Tonight there is not. It’s a weekday anyway. It’s the only place where I’ve approached a girl and have been met with nothing but a condescending stare. The bartender asks me what I want. “Nothing. I was just looking for someone.”

I was walking to my car which was parked at another bar when two drunk girls and a dude stumbled past me. I started talking with them and pretty soon the girl with the guy was gone and it was just me and the remaining drunk girl. She was decent looking but certainly over thirty. She told me she was thirty-two multiple times that night. She really emphasised it like it really meant something. We walked and talked and got to her place in a matter of minutes and she invited me in. She lived in a spacious, two bedroom penthouse in a central location. It was nicely furnished with your typical Ikea shit and a houseplant and it looked clean but it smelled kind of like dog. She took me upstairs to show me her art. I didn’t even remember asking about it. I was tired and bored and kind of going with the motions because she was the only person around. She had one room designated as her bedroom and the other as her painting studio. She showed me her painting and they were all the same. They were stylized pictures of a woman’s face with bright colors for backgrounds. One was a bright pink and purple, the other a bright green and orange. She had like a dozen of these paintings and they were all basically the same. One would be blonde, another would be a brunette but they were the same angle and the same proportions and none seemed better than the others. They reminded me of Richie Tenenbaum’s portraits of Margot. Her closet had more paintings in it and even though they were stacked vertically, I was sure they were of the same face.

We went downstairs and she excitedly put on Bo Burnham’s Words, Words, Words, which I had already seen. She seemed to really love it. I think it’s something you can only watch once because it’s not that good. We layed on the couch with her dog and watched the T.V. I didn’t stay the night even though there was a tacit invitation. We didn’t have any rapport. We had only known eachother for ten minutes and she was already ready to lay down, heavily sedated from alcohol. She was thirty-two, thirty-two, thirty-two. Bo Burnham is funny, clever, funny (did I say that already?). I needed to go, wanted to go, had to go. I took her number and said goodnight. I’m sure she was asleep before I was even in my car.


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