Over the weekend I watched a bit of a Clippers-Spurs game. At one point Barnes of the Clippers fouled Genobli of the Spurs. When the announcer declared the foul was "Barnes on Genobli", I chuckled to myself. I was watching it alone, and I imagined that if I was in love, she would be watching the basketball game with me and would also catch the Barnes & Noble pun without me explaining why I laughed. But is that love or narcissism? I looked at the cat laying next to me on the couch; she looked back at me and meowed.

Today I went to Barnes and Noble on my lunch hour. I was distracted; I have been having trouble focusing on reading lately; I'm having a lack of interest and attention deficit problem. I couldn't help overhearing a bit of a conversation a young couple was having in the fiction aisles.

"What's the name of the author you're looking for?" she asked him.

"J. D. Stallinger.
It's not alphabetical by last name, is it?"

"Yeah." she said with that two-syllable bent intonation that sounds like a speed bump; high then low, implying yes, dumbass.

She followed that with, "Is it 'J' as in the letter J?"

I was almost angry at them. I cringed invisibly.

About 20 feet away from me was a pretty girl in a pink tank top, bra straps showing, a cut-off denim skirt, red and black checker Vans, no socks, black hair with chopped short pig tails, heavy eyeliner but not much more makeup. Cute, and all of 18 I imagine. She was looking at books in the music section. I was trying to browse through an anthology of essays but I kept glancing up at her; at her shoulders... I kept glancing up and down--from my book to her--thinking one of those times she'd look up and make eye contact. She didn't. I thought I wasn't cool enough. If I was dressed better it would somehow distract her from what she was actually interested in and she'd be magnetically drawn... Then I realized I was being ridiculous. What future do you and I have, little girl? What do we have to talk about? Nothing. Should I be reading Lolita? I put my book down and made my way to the exit but not before walking by her; within 3 feet of her shoulders, I'd say. The back of her neck had been buzzed close, as with a #1 clipper guard (heh, a Clipper Guard, I chuckled to myself). I imagined that if she asked me if J. D. Salinger was "J as in the letter J", I would have found it incredibly charming and kissed her on her freckled nose.