lunch bunch

One by one, waiting for our cards to go through at a restaurant that looks like it shouldn’t take cards, the long-haired hostess in the ringer-tee (ugh, I know) surveys the three of us. We're already one short from the original group. She had a meeting. We had nothing else to do but hold the table and get refills.

"So, how do you all know each other?"

An odd question. Do we really look that 'chalk and cheese'? Or better yet, is it any of your business?

"We go to school together," I say, taking the debit receipt from her fingers. Approved.

Thank goodness.

"Oh, really?! Where!?"

We've all paid. The conversation should be spent by now, too.

"Ryerson," Katy says.

"Oh, really, so cool, for what program?"

Today, Tara happens to have really dressed the part. Paper folded beneath trench sleeve, fedora tipped down, piped stockings, shined shoes. So fitting, too fitting, almost costume-like in daytime. Like a method actor, only not acting.

"Journalism," Katy says. The hostess sings a chorus of admiration. We're momentarily made proud, feeling self-satisfied and important. But then we remember what it's really like. We deflate as we walk home, but agree unanimously to go on promoting what is hardly more than a reputation and a heap of student debt. The truth might sting, but it certainly won't hurt us in the long run.