It's Just People

I couldn't hold it anymore, my laughter. "You know she's got a boyfriend, don't you?" I asked him. He looked at me with this dopey, beaten puppy dog look. And then he grabbed his coat, said something about "I just remembered" yadda yadda yadda, and left.

Chelsea looked at me, furious, dumbstruck. "Why would you say that?"

"Why would I say what?" I knew what she meant. I just didn't know how she could possible mean it.

"You didn't have to tell him about Pete." Well, I said to myself, I just thought someone should tell the poor bastard.

There's that place between what's good and what's not, the information and the truth. And, no, it probably wasn't my responsibility to tell this guy about Pete. I don't even like Pete. That's not the point. If I was this guy, this sad sack bumming around a bar looking for someone to take me home, I would want a guy like me telling me what's what, putting me in my place, giving me the skinny, letting me know. And I'd never been mad at Chelsea, never once. I didn't think she was that kind of girl. And it was only then that I realized, maybe it's not a question of "That Kind" of girl. Maybe it's just people. And maybe I'm not that far behind.