I have a new job. Did you know?

My co-workers consist of a depressed wreck, a comedic genius, a superficial plastic, a former football star, and a hipster photographer/musician.

I sit in a cubicle. And the hipster sits in the cubicle next to mine.

I like him a lot. And the owl tattoo on his forearm.

I mostly like him because he's the only one that has compassion for the new kid (aka me).
He whispers through his cubicle into mine to tell me how to do things so that the other kids on the playground don't make me feel stupid for doing something wrong.

"Thanks for being so nice to me. I appreciate it. A lot." I said, as sincerely as I could.

He brushed it off like it was nothing: "I was the new kid here once, too. I remember what it was like to feel stupid and helpless. I'm here for ya, babe. Just holler whenever. I'm two feet away."

Then we smiled at each other. And that's when I established that we were friends.

After the shift, we walked to our cars together. And we discussed all things lovely.

And our mutual love for the opera and the theatre and the symphony and the ballet.

And then he told me that his life would be so much easier if he were gay.

Because then he would have an excuse for wanting to be a dancer.
We laughed.

Then he told me about some indie things that he does.
And I sarcastically shook my head at him while calling him a hipster.
"Being a hipster is hard work," he said almost instantly.
I was puzzled.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Do you know how hard it is to pretend like you don't care about anything all the time?"

I could not believe my ears.

Not only was he owning up to being a hipster, but he was hating on it at the same time.

That's breaking, like, all the hipster rules in the book.

And I think I love him.