Word: abp
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...ABP, my mother's lips tautening, she told me that it was back. Reality had struck again, abruptly invading my college utopia. And Pop couldn't even bring himself to tell me in person--he had thought I was so happy at Harvard. "And we've known this for a few months," she was continuing. "We just wanted you to start school happy." I felt disgusting. I was the selfish daughter who hadn't even contemplated a return to this sickness--I was just reveling in the petty glories of being a careless freshman girl. I was worried about boys...
There was another forced meeting at ABP a few months later, this one following weeks of fighting about my bad management of money and my rapidly growing credit debt. I had to meet Pop at ABP, and I started to drip tears and turn red and crouch in the iron chair, complaining about my life, all the while knowing that across from me, my father was just trying to stay alive. I cried and complained and told him this boy, my boyfriend, was mad at me and I couldn't do chem and wasn't having fun and couldn...
...give him a verdict. Until then he just has to wait. And I wait too. Sometimes still pondering what might happen, sometimes just trying to get my own things done. Sometimes the overwhelming feeling of selfishness sickens me, and more than often, I think about other stuff, like when ABP was just a meeting place for a night out with friends...
...tables of Au Bon Pain, the invariable meeting place for a night out. I drank numerous oily cups of Peet's Coffee, pretending that I was a tortured poet in a proverbial coffee house. I even developed a taste for their tuna croissant-wiches. I have good memories of ABP; it wasn't until college that it started to make me cringe...
...mother and father had lunch with me under the dirty old tree in front of ABP on the very first day of Harvard. As the fall went on, I'd meet them there periodically because ABP was close to the T and out of the Yard. So, it came as no surprise when my mother suggested coffee one October afternoon so that she could drop off my winter coat. I was a little late and caught a glance of her scrutinizing the dry oatmeal cookies, the rust-colored, checked blazer my father had picked out six sizes too big last...