Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Water Cooler Talk

You know the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?” Well it’s true. Here’s how I found out.

My girlfriend and I have been together for the better part of five years. One could say it’s been a while. I say it’s an eternity. Nevertheless, minus the $100,000 dollar wedding she wants, we’re pretty much at the “til death” part of our love. You know the kind where you know your bond can withstand anything? That everything’s better in the morning… or some morning long after kind of love? The one where you feel like two boxers in a caged ring cause ain’t no one getting out? Yeah, that’s the kind of love we have. Its wonderful getting up next to her because for the two minutes I’m awake and she’s not, I’m in heaven and she’s my angel. She’s so serene, freckles and all. Then approximately two minutes after said harmony my day, without exception, gets thrown into Purgatory and I never know where I’ll be by lunch or by dinner or by the end of one breath and the beginning of another. I try to think about it in a positive manner, try to make it anything else but a life and death slots game.

So Yesterday, I wake up, stretch, look over at my dear Shawna and smile. I rub her back oh so gently and kiss up her shoulder until I get to her cute, soft lips. I kiss her again. Her eye lashes flutter like butterflies. She looks at me and smiles. Today is going to be a good day. See you tomorrow Purgatory.

We get up and have a nice, calm breakfast. We make pleasant conversation. We kiss each other goodbye and it’s off to work I go. She calls me at 10:30 and asks if we can have lunch, she’ll be in the area. I tell her sure, that I’d love to. We agree on 12:45 at a little place a few blocks from my office. Things are set.

12:30 rolls around and I leave to meet her. She loves it when I’m in my business clothes and I’m looking pretty sharp today. Power tie and all, it’s like her 1950’s era James Bond fetish come to life. When I arrive at the restaurant, she’s not there. Thirty minutes later, she’s not there. Much to my good fortune, she arrives after my second glass of wine has gone dry. She rushes to sit down, all flustered. I can tell that she left the apartment fifteen minutes ago and drove twice the legal limit to get here. I can’t help but crack a smile because she always has the most ridiculous look on her face, like a fat kid caught eating a cookie under his covers after story time. We say hello and kiss. After a bit of conversation, I proceed to ask her what time she actually left. She hangs her head a bit and mumbles something closer to Chinese than English.

I razz her a bit more then let it go, I’ve had my fun. The lunch itself is quick and pleasant. Everything was going well until that third glass of wine kicked in. I’m not sure about anybody else, but when my alcohol intake goes up, the control I have over my mouth goes down. I tell people it’s a condition but no one takes me seriously. As we walk outside, hand in hand, she asks me if I notice anything different. I look her up and down and tell her that she’s looking stunning as always. She smiles then asks again, this time a little more pointedly. Holding my chin like a professor, I say to her. “Hmm… you do look taller…” I look to her. She nods, I’m getting warmer. I look down at her shoes and stare, studying them. Have I seen them before? What color are they? Are they Dark blue? Or Navy blue? I learned the importance of this distinction a couple of years ago during the Easter Hue Event of ‘05. It was a bloodbath.

I still shudder at the thought of it.

Moving on. I didn’t recognize the shoes, though I noted they were stilettos. Now, it should be known that my girlfriend has never worn stilettos in the entirety of our time together and has proclaimed them as “whorish” and things that only “hookers” wear. The words she used to describe this certain style of shoes lie somewhat in a gray area to me as I do not personally believe that an overpriced pair of name brand “foot accessories” makes one a moral pariah. Upon my realization that my girlfriend was, indeed, wearing “hooker” shoes, I humored the buzz I had been having and said, word for word. “If you’re only taking cash tonight, I can pick up some cash on my way home, if ya’know what I mean?” Then I continued to wink at her in an overly hyperbolic way, like a cartoon character.

The air hung still and she caught my eyes. I could see the Lady Justice weighing my fate. Anger, just a flash though. Then the wind blew again and all was well. Lindsey was smiling, smiling dirty. A miracle? Maybe I should start going to church again.

When I came home that night, dinner was hot and on the table. It smelled wonderful! All of my favorite things! Collard greens, fried chicken, and macaroni and cheese! Home cooked from scratch! When the dinner was finished, she grabbed me by my tie and lead me to the bedroom.

When I woke up the next morning, I looked lovingly over at my freckled angel. So peaceful, so serene. I kissed her good bye and went to work. Call after call of urgent business kept finding its way to my desk. By noon I had had enough and sent my girlfriend a text in the middle of an incident. She responded.

(205): Damn it woman. I’ve been shitting all morning because of that damn bacon grease.
(1-205): That’s what you get for calling me a hooker.

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