Her: “I can’t believe you like [that actor].” Or “[that TV show].” Or “[that song].”

How many times have I been on this first date?

Sometimes she’s a librarian. Sometimes a homebody. Always with the hierarchy. TV lowest. Movies lowish. Books above it all.

Life’s disappointed her. Sometimes her family has. Sometimes her job has. Eventually I will, too.

Sometimes I fail as a platonic ideal. Sometimes I can’t be platonic.

I say artistry is difficult. Good taste is like a good compass. It gives you direction, but can’t help you climb a mountain.

She’s never been one for mountaineering.

(this was a piece of 100-word flash fiction I wrote years back and never published. I’m up late, can’t sleep, figured I’d polish it up and put it online)