two coordinations

So, finally, after we get everything in the damn trunk, the three of us pile into the car and hit the road north to Cincinnati, heading towards what has been hyped to be the most exciting part of our summer. I'm skeptical. So I'm in the back seat, looking out the window and the two of them are up front chatting away about how this band is the best that ever was and ever will be and how this concert will be the best that ever was and ever will be and I'm sitting in the back looking out the window and I'm skeptical. But, don't get me wrong, I'm down for the adventure anyways. So the phone rings up front and the passenger picks up and starts coordinating with his girl friend when and where we'll all meet once we get to Cicinnati. An hour later she's pulling into a parking space right next to ours, her best friend sitting shot gun next to her. I hate her best friend. I hate her sight. I hate her voice. And I don't see why I shouldn't be blunt about the things I'm passionate about.
Anyways, so her best friend starts talking the second she steps out of the car and, as mentioned, I hate the sound of her voice- not just because it sounds like a Frenchman vomiting- but also because she says the most stupid things known to man and it makes Gerorge W. Bush look good and I usually switch the channel when "W" talks but, sadly, I can't switch the channel when she talks. And she is talking a lot as she steps out of the car. And I'm getting annoyed very quickly. And she dosn't shut up.
And I'm now at the concert and I wish they would play the music louder just to drown her out. Hell, its not even good music and I'm wishing that I had gotten drunker or even high before I walked through the gates. When we leave I'm wanting a drink or a gun to put me out of my misery because that was a horrible concert and my friend is being an ass hole and his girl friend is not much better and her friend is making me want to step in on-coming traffic and my other friend is making a horrible display of hitting of her and that makes me sick, thinking of the two of them getting physical together. Maybe it would be better if I was drunk, but I'm the soberest here and just earned the right to be DD for the night and that is icing on the fucking cake. The night dosn't get better, because of all the reasons just mentioned. I leave cursing Cincinnati.
Coming back I searched for a bright spot in the whole adventure and came to the conclusion that it was when I made a phone call in the lobby next to a sleeping bell-hop, and the girl on the other end of the line picked up.
I think that was the only part of the night I smiled.
But there's more.
So fast forward now to a few weeks later when I'm going seventy on a straight stretch of fifty-five towards Cin-city, again, and the girl that made my night when she picked up my phone call in the lobby of that hotel is sitting shotgun next to me, smiling, and her hair is blowing with the wind, and we're laughing and the music is blarring and I just passed a cop and am wondering why the hell he didn't clock me for speeding.
Anyways.
I believe in second chances. And I'm glad I do.
Because after my first summer visit to Cinncy I never wanted to go back.
My second trip up there might be topping the list of best days in summer, though.
Weird how that works out.
I'm not going to lie. Sometimes I'm walking to class and I'm smiling because I remember that second night and how her teal blue purse matched her teal blue shoes. Such a weird color to coordinate.
You'd have to be there.
It would make you appreciate second chances too.