I had dinner at Cos’s house tonight, and while her husband finished putting up drywall in the living room, we were off to the laundromat (the one with the world’s best jukebox).
When we were folding the dry clothes to take home, I stopped to put a few quarters in the jukebox. I was taking too long picking songs, though, and Cos spoke sharply to me: “Hey!”
“Okay, I still have two more credits,” I said, contrite. I giggled to myself as I punched the numbers.
She looked up and started laughing when the first song started; it was a Counting Crows song, “Mr. Jones.” (Many years ago, she was engaged to one of them. A Counting Crow, I mean.)
“What’s wrong with that song? That’s a perfectly good song,” she said.
“Oh, I’m not casting aspersions on the song,” I said. “It’s just that it has to do with a past bad relationship. But don’t worry, there’s a worse one coming for me.” True to my word, the jukebox then spewed forth the Eagles’ “Desperado.”
“Oh, no,” she groaned.
We looked at each other and laughed, because when you’ve been good friends long enough, you know the full weight of things no one else could understand. So we picked up the laundry, and made our way back home.
I just spit my granola all over the keyboard. The granola I ate yesterday.