"Brandon!"
"Amy."
"Do I have an annoying accent?"
I was lining up my shot--I'd already sank most of the solids, while Amy, a self-confessed "shitty" pool player, had left most of the stripes scattered across the table. We regularly played ping-pong at 2:30, but today, I challenged her to a game of pool. Don't worry, I'll be gentle. I stood straight and gave her my best "what the fuck are you talking about?" look. She was sitting on one of the stools, cradling her pool cue and looking completely bored. She kicked her foot at me. Her flip-flop went sailing over my head, and she laughed loudly. Then: "Well?"
"Who told you you have an annoying accent?"
"Everyone says it's annoying."
We've been friends for almost a year and I'd grown accustomed to her thick Southern accent. In Amy parlance, Brandon became Brain-den. Amy became Ay-may. Crazy became crahy-zay. No was broken into two syllables: no-oh.
I shrugged. "No, it's not annoying." I leaned over and once more lined up my shot. "It's just clear you're from the South." I took my shot. "That Southern hospitality." She was always bringing me food and, considering how thin both of us are, we always joked about appearing on The Biggest Loser. I remembered how difficult it had been to understand her when we first met. Now, her accent barely even registered. "You know who has annoying accents?"
"Who?"
"Fuckin Bostonians." Annoying enough for me to hate on any author, living or dead, from Boston. Annoying enough for me to swear off ever reading Henry James's The Bostonians.
She grinned and kicked her other foot at me. I caught her flip-flop, and she jumped from the stool and took her shot. Her pool cue clattered off several of the pool balls. "Fuckin Bostonians," she said.