I’m flirting with this girl at the bar when a popular song I recognize from high school plays over the speakers. You know that nineties hit by that one Jesus something band. Memories of grunge, PlayStation, and The Real World strum a chord in my mind. Back when CD’s and pagers were all the rage.
“Man, I haven’t heard this song in forever,” I said.
The girl bent her ear toward the speaker revealing a twelve-gauge plug. She wore her dark hair fashioned in a retro mullet. The polka dot dress she wore captured that ‘vintage style.’ She was nostalgic for records and Polaroids, but shared a mutual obsession for technology. She had a new age-y name like Sierra or Rainee.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard this song,” she said.
“How have you not heard this song? It was the jam in ninety-one.”
This girl giggled, blushed. “I was born in ninety-one.”