Types of couples observed from my studio apartment on a Friday night

[Here’s a little something I wrote last autumn. I don’t live in that city anymore, but I recently came across this in my drafts and wondered why I’d never posted it. It’s kinda fun. Maybe it’ll inspire a story or two.]

The plain boy and fiery girl. He’s wearing a neutral green shirt over jeans and looks like he probably works at Microsoft. She’s got bright orange hair, a black floral dress, and combat boots. So tell me: how did you meet?

The “we’re breaking up but we don’t want to leave.” Two emo kids sit in lawn chairs by the fountain, glaring into the mist and not speaking. Her arms are crossed. He keeps sneaking sideways glances at her scowl and all-black attire complete with fingerless biker gloves. They’re sitting in the most crowded part of the square.

The successful first (second?) lunch date. He finished all his food, but she’s carrying a cardboard box of leftovers. They part in an awkward hurry, and she races to her car without looking back, probably late for a shift at work. He moseys down the sidewalk and does a little skip once she crosses the street.

The retired couple that rolls up in their bright red convertible with outdated tires. Of course, they get the last available parking spot next to the second-fanciest restaurant in town. He’s wearing a see-through white button down and tight black jeans, gray hair combed just enough so the ends curl a little at the neck. She bundles her dirty blonde hair into a messy bun to accentuate her shoulders, which is also what the silver heels are for. Matching sunglasses hide the evolving facial features they refuse to admit are beautiful.

The working adults in their 20s who haven’t dated anyone for a while to “find themselves.” They linger in the parking lot next to their cars, discussing the uproarious cost of gas and that article in the Washingtonian about why millennials are moving to the countryside. There’s no good-bye kiss, only the faint, stale air of carry-ons filled with ache.

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