Spare (Ex)change

I spent the week reading plays as part of the artistic committee for a local theater, as well as making a Hogwarts admission letter for my Harry Potter-loving, newly eleven-year-old daughter. So, I have far less new material for you this week than I'd like, but I hope you'll enjoy it nevertheless.

On our way back to the car, as we step from the darkness of the Sister and into the mid-morning light, we pass by one of the balding old townies who sat in front of us the night before. He is leaned against the wall by the door, a far slighter figure than the one I’m used to in that spot, and he is flicking the lid of a Zippo open and shut. It’s monogrammed, the old lighter, and I can’t tell if it’s a generic grim reaper or Charon himself, so I ask Michael.

“Well, actually,” says Michael, but I stop listening after the adverb. I can’t hear anyone say those two words unironically anymore, not after a semester of hearing Taylor and her friends use them as the foundation for their impressions of the single straight boy who, amongst the previous semester’s class of women and gay men and non-binary folk, could not stop himself from preaching the gospel of neglected nuance and unsung subtlety.

“Spare change?” asks the townie, and much to my surprise, Taylor stops and begins to fish through her wallet.

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