“You’re, like, one of those manic depressive dream girls, or whatever.” Vanessa twirls herself around on one of the bar stools as she tells Anya this, red wine swirling precariously in her martini glass.
“Manic depressive dream girls?”
“Yeah, you know, like Zooey Deschanel.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“She means manic pixie dream girl,” Jamie says, trimming his sideburns and using the kettle as a mirror. “And you are. Well, you want to be.”
“Right,” Anya says, slowly. Petra sees her study her reflection in the kettle as well – Jamie keeps it shiny, which seems at odds with the relative hygiene of his facial hair maintenance habits. “I still don’t know what you mean.”
Jamie sighs, puts down the razor. “You’re quirky. You work in a gift shop that sells fake sugar skulls and necklaces with old-school cartoon characters on them. You’re relatively attractive, by conventional measures – waist size, shininess of hair, etc, but you’re just a little odd. You talk a lot about your vinyl collection and your penchant for children’s fantasy novels, and wear overall dresses. And you’re totally oblivious to the fact that you’re a walking cliché.” He crosses his arms. “Et voila. I hope this experience has been enlightening for you.”
Anya frowns, Petra snorts. Jamie resumes shaving.