This girl, she came, put her books down next to mine.
“Hey, do you have a cigarette?” she asked.
“Sorry, no. I don’t smoke.” I said.
“So, what’re you doing here today?”
“Had some stuff to take care of. Money problems, you know? Figuring out how to pay $40k a year is ten times harder than getting into this school. It’s like, ‘Yeah, we’ll let you in, but can you actually pay us?’ Insert some evil laugh in there.”
She laughs. “I know what you mean. Listen, you wanna go out sometime, you seem nice enough, even if I did just meet you.”
“Um, sure. Why not. What’s your name?”
She then proceeded to grab her Fendi handbag, open it up ever so slightly, and pull out a business card. “Sara ________, Sophomore.” With her home phone number, cell, email and her website. It was a pink card, with a soft texture. It smelled like some Estée Lauder perfume my mother used to buy. Beautiful, I think it was.
“Here,” she said. “Let me right down my ICQ number. Add me to your list. Oh, and here’s my AIM name—just in case you’re one of those who’re anti-ICQ.” She smiled. Her ICQ number was in the five digits. That definitely impressed.
I just looked at her. In awe, even.
“Oh, gotta go,” she says, checking her watch. “It’s almost one and I have an appointment with my friend Paul. He’s at Goldman, you know.”
I smile. Again. “Sure thing. I’ll give you a call sometime.”
“Sure. Later!” And she walks away, Fendi handbag in hand.