Reunion

"AHHHHH!"

Two women in high heels scuttle towards each other for a manicure avoiding hug.
Heads turn and brows furrow to the shrill cries of idiots recognizing each other. You would think they hadn't seen each other in years. But it was probably a week ago ... there have been margaritas since then.
The screaming stops and only a faint tearing sound can be heard between them.

Now, I'd like to say that they had successfully tore a hole in reason, but I'm sure the truth is less entertaining. No, the sound was probably being made by the amount of 'smell-good' each of them put on in the parking lot acting as a temporary adhesive.

The ladies lean away from each other, take a cat swipe at the air, and say that the other looks great in falsetto unison.
While the air conditioning does its best to waft the vapid compliments away, unintentional eavesdroppers try their damnedest to tell these women apart.
Tribal skull wings on a Harley made of crosses skeeted black on a white shirt with rhinestones making some rhinestone shape your mind won't let you waste your rhinestone life trying to decipher on it and rhinestoned dark blue jeans that literally scream "Barbie Two-Step".

Their faces.
Their faces resemble poorly crafted organic Jim Henson baseball glove Muppets.
Their faces look like they did in high school, but with bitch-laced age/body shame marinating in collagen and dusted with Pringle flavoring.
Their faces look as though you made beer-butt tiramisu on a skull and poured too much cinnamon on it.

They catch up on what mutual (possibly interesting) friends are doing and play with their US Weekly approved platinum hair.

The men stand off to the side observing their high school sweethearts; feet apart and arms crossed. They are dressed in a combination of what is Ed Hardy-cool now, what was UFC 'cool' a year ago, and what their platinum carrots want them to wear.

I often wonder what shopping with them would be like.
"I like this one."
"It's the same as the other one, babe."
"But this one is red and it says FAITH."

You could go out in public with the description I've given you so far and see the SAME guys being removed from a bar ... or I could go on describing them.
No? You're good?
Okay.

I hear the words "disappointed" and "Mavericks" through the occasional unnecessary straight-billed hat adjustment ... the boyz don't catch up.
They don't need to. They're busy repressing.

One of the clones squawks something like "Is this little Brittany?!"
Oh, yeah. One couple has kids. Yes, kids. Wonderful, unhealthy, privileged little pre-voters. The Youngest Republicans.
The spawn even has the decency to hand the Starbucks back to mommy.
After everyone congratulates her like a near deaf senior citizen, she squeals and begins dancing the way any caffeine-saturated 8 year old would.
The 'mother' feels the need to scat some comedic observation that proves to be way funnier/sadder than she could have ever imagined.

"Git it girl! She's such a little freak."

The adults break into premeditated laughter that doesn't wrinkle their face in that embarrassing way.

The scene fades ... waiting to be rehearsed again.