I’ve known my best friend, Cara, for ten years. We met sometime during July of 2009 but we weren’t too keen on each other. We had plenty of pretend reasons not to—our respective partners were jealous or insecure, we were unhappy at where we found ourselves in life, and we’d fallen into that trap of thinking women had to compete with other women.
Yet, in spite of that, we did manage to forge a relationship.
I distinctly remember the moment it happened: we were out with a group of friends at our local brewery (before craft beer became a personality type) and she was introducing me to the ambrosia that is “Hummingbird Water.” That is, Ace’s Pear Cider mixed with Lindeman’s Framboise and a dash of Grenadine. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Cara accidentally spat directly onto my face, mid-sentence.
Feigning politeness though no less taken aback by disgusted horror, I stared at her. There was a moment of silence.
“Did I just spit on you?”
The pause deepened.
“Well… you can wipe it off now.”