Friends of Quinn

The only thing my high school boyfriend and I had in common was that we were both dyslexic, which is actually one of the reasons why we didn’t work out. There should be a warning sign when two dyslexics enter a relationship, but the problem is no one would be able to read it.

What was suppose to be a romantic bike ride, lead me to the realization that his short term memory would be a constant dilemma in our relationship. After a short pitstop on a bench, we were back on our bikes when I turned to him and said, “where is my dad’s helmet you we wearing?” His response, “Oh Shit.”  The phrases, oh shit, I don’t know, and I don’t remember, where practically the only words that came out of his mouth during our one year relationship, besides I’m hungry, make me something.

You might be wondering where did he leave that helmet? Ladies and gentleman, I am still asking myself that question. He thinks (oh i forgot to add that to the list) he left it on a bench next to the bipolar homeless man. The sweet dyslexic boy felt guilty and wanted to buy my dad another helmet. But this was not a fourteen dollar helmet you could pick up at your local K-mart. It was two hundred dollar helmet, the same one lance Armstrong used in the Tour de France.

The breaking point of our relationship took place in the chaotic park of Union Square in Manhattan. We had just seen the movie Salt, where Angelina Jolie’s character plays a Russian Spy in America. Attempting to act like a well-educated, cultured critic I turned to him and said, “It’s weird how this movie came out right after Russian spies were actually found in America.” Dumb founded he responded, “What Russian spies in America?” That’s when shit hit the fan. “How could you not know there weren’t russian spies in America. I know you can’t read maps, text books or gossip magazine, but you can read a simple title of newspaper. You’re so stupid.” Holding back his sniffles he said, “don't call me stupid. Your the one who cant even pronounce my last name right.” Now ten feet ahead of him, I turned back and shouted, “that’s for comedic timing and you know it.”

Similarly to the dramatize performance that occur in the park, there had to be an ending.  No claps were heard, nor bows took place, just the satisfaction that I’ll never have to memorize a ten syllable  German last name never again.