“You are in possession of the service vibe,” professed she, with an air of decided credence, and my inordinately frivolous life, of everlasting Gossip Girl and How I Met Your Mother catch-ups, was henceforth halted.
The general manager’s conjectured statement addled me; had she been scarcely correct, however, I would have sobbed incessantly, for to be so readily seen through it is gravely stupefying and miserable. But her physiognomy ineptitude and erroneous study of my character furnished me with abundance of great relief.
I deserve, though, neither such commendation nor servility, because underneath me lies an idle and indolent fellow. My unkempt hair is uncommonly long due to my insouciance to walk, or ride a bus, or drive a car, or fly a plane, or whatever it is, to a beauty parlour. I mount staircases, two steps at a time, sometimes three, only because my lackadaisical attitude permits so.
“Pray tell me, for the convenience of the world, and the goodwill of the universe, what is the service vibe anyway!” I entreated Adeline on the subject one half-hour before our first day of work.
From where my best friend and I sat, to munch on chocolate pancakes for breakfast, of which I have not the smallest objection to eating them again, the setting and atmosphere were sedate. The immaculate morning sun scintillated while rays of orange and gold foxtrotted across the sullen river and undulated to the perpetual tempo with the liveliest of spirits.
In sheer silence had she meditated, or so it appeared, but resolved to deliver not a single judgement, that did seemed as if my concern was in every notable respect vapid and disparaging. Or perhaps I had performed my part, of involuntarily conferring little attention to Adeline and naturally devoting extensive regard to the awe-inspiring sunrise, insofar as to conveniently neglect my interlocutor.
But, to be absolutely certain, we were both lost in reverie that hump day.