and is slightly slanted in my direction, and I’m slanted in his direction and we’re touching. And not by accident. No one touches by accident. His thigh is purposefully pressed up against mine. Saying hello. Our ligaments made contact about four minutes ago, during a preview for a movie in which Kate Hudson and Matt Damon play opposites who fall in love.
Thigh, make nice to your new friend, Thigh. The heat being generated by the gentle touching of our denim is unbearable. I must rip off his clothes. I simply must!
Something to my left is talking and poking me in the shoulder. “I’m getting popcorn. Want to come with me?” Jamie asks.
“No thanks,” we both say.
He shrugs and creeps down the row.
“The previews are my favorite part,” Russ whispers, distributing shivers all over my ear.
“Me, too,” I lie. Previews are a waste of time. I want to get to the good part. But I’ll agree to anything Russ says. Want to have sex right here? Okay. Want to lick the gum off the underside of my chair? Sounds delicious.
Keanu Reeves does some sort of high-tech tae kwon do move on screen. “Doesn’t that look cool?” Russ asks. Then the next preview starts. “I definitely want to see this,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a marketer’s wet dream. You want to see everything.”
“Can’t help it. They all look good.”
“That’s because you only see the best part of the movie. You don’t have to sit through the boring dialogue, bad editing and predictable plot.”
I feel his eyes on me instead of the screen. He’s going to tell me I’m nuts. Instead he says, “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
He is so close. I can smell the M&M’s on his breath.
Is he going to kiss me? I think he’s going to kiss me. Now. Any second.
Suddenly there’s a thump in the seat beside me.
“Russ, you greedy bastard,” Jamie says, stuffing his mouth with popcorn. “You have to leave some women for the rest of us.”
Huh? What does that mean?
Russ withdraws back into his seat, like a scared turtle into his shell.
“He’s not being greedy,” I say. Why does Jamie think he owns me?
“Yes, he is. He has Sharon to whisper to during movies. He can’t have you, too.”
Sharon? What’s a Sharon? Any chance Sharon is his sister? This preview is really interesting. So interesting I think I’ll keep staring at it. Yup. Keep staring. And not look as though I am upset or surprised in any way whatsoever.
Jamie continues chomping on his popcorn, inadvertently spurting out both kernel remnants and more information. “So Russ, how long did you say you and Sharon have been going out?”
Nail. Slammed. Deeper. Into. Heart. Russ has a girlfriend. I’ve already named our children, and he has a girlfriend. Maybe they’re not serious?
“Hasn’t it been since college?” Jamie says, answering his own question.
Russ shifts in his seat. His thigh is no longer touching mine, but is a continent away. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. That would be pathetic. Not more pathetic than me imagining he was interested in me in the first place, but pathetic nonetheless.
This had better be a short movie. Or a sad one.
I will stare straight ahead. Beautiful, tragic movie screen.
The movie starts and I continue staring ahead.
“Do you want some popcorn?” Jamie whispers to me.
“Sure, thank you,” I say in a seductive voice, just loud enough for Russ to hear. Ha. You’re taken? Fine. Then watch me flirt with Jamie. See how you like that.
My fingers accidentally touch Jamie’s and a smile twitches his face. Uh-oh. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
“Where do you think they filmed this?” Jamie asks a few minutes later. A kernel remnant lands on my ear.
Who cares? “New York.”
“Yeah? I was thinking Montreal. Isn’t that the Olympic Stadium?”
How should I know? “Maybe.”
“I think it is. I love Montreal. It’s so European. Have you ever been?”
No. And I never will. I now hate Canada and all Canadians. Especially Russ. Jamie better shut up. If he keeps talking throughout the entire movie, I won’t be able to properly fixate my thoughts on Sharon. Sharon. She sounds like a bitch. I bet she’s blond.
Jamie’s still staring at me. “Have you?”
Have I what? Oh, right. Montreal. “No.”
Definitely blond. With dainty feet. Men love small feet. I bet the guys in her high school ranked her a ten. The entire package, I mean. Her feet are probably size six.
I hate B-school.
Tuesday, September 9, 10:40 a.m.
layla makes a good impression
I love B-school.
And I would love it exponentially more if Professor Martin stopped spitting on me. But he appears to love what he teaches, Strategy, and that’s what’s important.
He’s wearing an army hat. This is because he is trying to make the point that business is war, which is written in block letters on the blackboard and on the class agenda, lest we forget.
As usual, I’m sitting in the front row. This time, I’m regretting the seat choice due to Professor Martin’s tendency to spit every time he uses the letter P.
Kimmy seems to be enjoying the class even less than I am. She looks horribly uncomfortable in the front row, and keeps reclining her neck as though attempting to get away. She’s wearing a look of distaste, as if the maid forgot to empty the kitty litter. And she’s not even taking notes. I suppose she’s planning on borrowing them later from the library, where the professors keep them on file.
All the men around me are eagerly leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the war metaphor. I’m finding the environment mildly testosterone heavy.
“Do you people understand?” Professor Martin spits, waving his hands. “Your competitor is the enemy. You must be prepared to fight for every consumer dollar and every point of market share or you will not prevail in business.”
Too bad I’m a pacifist. Why do men think everything is about war?
Yes! The bell rings, and I head to the computer terminals to check my e-mail. The application committee was supposed to get back to me early this week. It’s Tuesday. Today is the last possible day for it to still be considered early in the week. Tomorrow is the middle of the week. I type in my e-mail address and password. My password is always the same. It’s the license plate I memorized off a cab when I was five, thinking that the driver was the gray-haired man who had killed his wife in that week’s episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wanted to call the show, but my then nanny wouldn’t let me.
In my inbox: five e-mails from my best girlfriends back home in the city, a bunch of e-mails from the LWBS administration regarding class add/drop dates, a reminder about my ten-year high-school reunion this summer (for which I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.
Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.
Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need