“I don’t like typical people,” the man remarked suddenly, startling Polly, “People that are so easy to figure out. Like her for instance.”
He gestured to Johnny, sitting near the middle of the club. She was currently dabbing at the edges of her mouth with a napkin as she swilled the straw in her drink carelessly. Dropping the napkin, she picked up her purse and rooted around until she found her lip gloss and compact mirror. Just as Johnny began to apply the pink gloss, the man spoke again.
“I bet that she gets all her money from her daddy,” he said, beginning his analysis, “Has a boyfriend with perfect hair and teeth, who still has his mother buy his clothes. I bet she drives a shiny new convertible, that she didn’t put a cent into. All her friends are high society, and couldn’t give a shit about how she really feels.”
“What about the kind of music she listens to?” Polly asked, a smirk aching to break out on her face.
“Britney Spears, Beyonce, all that top 10 stuff,” he said, matter of factly, “She wouldn’t know a thing about any song that hasn’t been played on MTV in the last week.”
“Interesting,” Polly mused.
“Don’t you get that vibe from her?”
“No,” Polly said flatly, “Because I happen to live with her. Her boyfriend is anything but perfect, he works in a coffee shop and is a freelance journalist. Her parents are lower middle class, but have always worked their hardest to give her everything she wants and have always told her to follow her dreams. She drives a Volkswagen van from the 70s, and plays guitar in a band. She listens to The Who, The Beatles and The Stones late at night. Oh and about her friends, I don’t think we could possibly care more about her.”
Polly then stalked off to sit with Johnny, muttering under her breath, “Bloody bastard.”
