Letters to Strangers

---

I kicked his CD's on the floor, an accident that was strangely synchronized with the out-of-place beat of Journey's Don't Stop Believing blasting from inside the brick walls of Bombays - a normally hip-hoppy, techno love child. A car pulled in quietly beside me - door ajar and silently thinking about the strange day.

"Woo!" "Give me a fucking break." the sound of bottles falling from their door. "Damn, are those all our bottles?" I waited for Dj Jynx to willfully return to the car and continue in our awkward, stubbornly thoughtful venture into ten o'clock on a warm Saturday night in the beginning of June.

I remember thinking, "I swear to God I'm allergic to this fucking town." while I coughed out an itchy throat and tried my best to ignore the urge to claw my eyes out. It had definitely been a strange, strange day.

The morning had been bitter and cold, chalked full of strangers and being uncomfortable. The afternoon was dense and warm and claustrophobic all set on top with a feeling of sickness at its' underbelly. Some people make me so awkward. Finally they left, and I was left with Jynx and techno and starlight, and ultimately, the night until eleven to grasp hold of and mold into whatever I so pleased.

I picked up his CD's and sneezed while a large white van passed behind us on the road and almost got rear-ended by a teal Honda.

Jynx finally came back, wielding two straight five-dollar bills, "Up for that ice cream?" he closed his door and we rolled by the entrance of Bombay's. I smiled.

We remained in that stupefied daze while we passed two perfectly fine grocers, and finally pulled into a Safeway off of East Cypress. We are such creatures of habit. We bought the pint to share, scrounged up two spoons, and parked under a dim streetlight to indulge ourselves after a rough afternoon. It was quiet. We made jokes.

"I got myself a life, y'know, a good job, a profitable hobby..." He shoved a spoonful of Raspberry White Chocolate Truffle into his mouth awkwardly.

"I like how you put that." He handed me the pint. "A profitable hobby. I need myself one of those."

He looked at me as I dug into the carton of ice cream with a tired, profound gaze. He giggled. "Don't do what Caitlin does." I choked on our inside joke, and threw the carton back his way. We continued to numb our sugar-coated mouths with it.

"We've hit bottom." I smiled, handing him the carton one more time.
"Yeah, but I'm back at least."
"No," I paused, glanced at him and grinned, "I mean of the ice cream carton."

I remained itchy. I force-fed him the last bite of ice cream, giggling through sleeplessness and awkward vengeance. He started the car, and we drove out.

I need more nights like these. The kinds that help me drown out the headache, mostly by making me forget it's there, and mostly by blasting House music so loud I can't even hear the gears in my brain twist, or the pistons in the engine pull.

"You shouldn't wear yourself down so much." he said, the background beat a mash-up of everything cliche of the 90's. "All I ever see you do is work, and you don't even enjoy it."

"We've hit bottom." I smiled, handing him the carton one more time.
"Yeah, but I'm back at least."