Conversation overheard on the southbound District Line tube on a Sunday afternoon before a Chelsea match from four, young, female, American (of course), presumably study abroad students:
Girl1: Oh I can’t even drink the stuff. Ugh.
Girl2: I know. I only drink it when I am with Tyler’s parents.
Girl3: You have to go from like white to blush to red or you won’t be able to drink it.
Girl4: Why does it turn teeth blue? I hate that.
Girl3: Yeah but it’s, like, you know, good in the winter because it’s room temperature.
Girl1: I don’t drink it.
Girl4: Me neither.
Girl2: So Tyler and I decided only to talk three days a week. So I emailed him, yay, now Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays will feel like Christmas morning!
Girl1: This is our stop.
Post-convo analysis by Bryan and myself:
Thank god we are older than 20. Because I can’t imagine my life without red wine. Or dark chocolate. Or all the other things that seem so un-ingestible a decade earlier.
We felt like we witnessed the death knell of Girl2 and Tyler’s relationship. I wonder whose idea it was to only talk three days a week while she was abroad.
Tyler: Hey, uh, wouldn’t it be fun if we switched to only two days now?