Charming as a Verb

by Ben Philippe

Oh, eff my freaking life to hell right now.

“They think . . . you’re fine.” “They think I’m terrifying,” she says, unconvinced. “Fine, they think you’re the Loch Ness monster without the gift-shop plush toys.”

“What does my card say?” She smiles back and quickly flips through the deck. “Henri Haltiwanger: Senior. Dogs, con-man tendencies, sneakers.” “I mean, that’s the gist of it,” I concede.

sigh as I hook her pinkie. It’s the most childish thing ever, but it also feels like a serious covenant coming from someone like Corinne, who took a book out in kindergarten when other kids started pulling ponytails and only looked up a few weeks ago when it dawned on her that she was, perhaps, a bit intense. “This is ridiculous,” I say. “No, it’s not. Pinkie swears are philosophically no different than most G8 resolutions.”

She’s wearing a one-piece under a jean jacket, heart-shaped sunglasses, and judging from the bulging pockets, I’d bet there are two paperback novels on her.

“Man, small talk is not your forte, huh?” “I don’t believe in it as a lifestyle choice, no.”

Unlike anyone else I’ve ever met, this girl could so very easily make my heart her complete bitch.