Anaconda Marie Stewart (commonly Ana) listened to Joy Division as she swung on her tire swing over the irritatingly picturesque lake in her backyard. Normally Ana, being the sort of person who loved the Glen Miller Orchestra and The Ink Spots and Bette Midler, would have rather projectile vomited into her own hair than put anything that sounded this much like The Smiths on her iPod. But Craig had practically insisted that she listen. Craig was Ana’s new co-worker, and their schedules coincided almost precisely. Ana liked him almost purely on the fact that he didn’t laugh at her nametag—Hello, my name is Anaconda!—the way her old co-worker, Liz, had. She liked him enough that she was willing to listen to his crap music, even though it was practically making her ears bleed.
(And the fact that she had an itty bitty crush on him didn’t hurt.)
After a near-lifetime of smooth jazz, even the crooning voice of Ian Curtis was harsh and ugly and Ana was just about to turn it off when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Carefully, she removed it from her pocket; as she fidgeted, the tire swing bounced and her bare toes dipped into the water, spreading ripples. She took great care to not likewise submerge the phone on which she depended—that and her iPod.
“Craig,” she answered. Lately he’d taken to calling her, something that Ana could barely fathom. She got from his calls that kind of giddy happiness that made you smile even when you were doing Chemistry homework. It was the kind of happiness that made her want to giggle, even though she never giggled.
“Anaconda,” he replied. One of Craig’s less admirable traits was that he, with absolutely no irony intended, loved her full name, and insisted upon using it. “Did you listen to my music?”
Ana leaned back, and her long blond ponytail skimmed the water. “Oh, that was music?” she asked, batting her eyes innocently even though Craig couldn’t see her from his house across town. “I thought it was a cat giving birth.” Something about him made her get a little flirty, and Ana wasn’t sure she liked that. “Or,” she amended, “Morrissey giving birth.”
Craig scoffed. “As opposed to the crap that you gave me?” he asked. “I mean, at least you made the Smiths connection. I love the Smiths. Ergo, the Smiths are better. I just owned your soul.” Craig was fun to hang out with, but his arguments didn’t always make much sense.
“Au contraire,” Ana countered. “I know the Smiths because I’m awesome and my dad owns approximately nine zillion CDs. To know is not to love, dear boy.” Ana was rather pleased with this response. It was clever and snapped off quickly, without any stammering. Perhaps it wasn’t her absolute best, but it was sufficient.
“Unless,” said Craig, “what they know is the Joy Division.”
Post a Comment