She Said No, She'd Eaten Some Bad Mussels
4-3-97
I'm not exactly burning to express anything today. I'm feeling like a dumb-ass for drinking at the Sheraton yesterday when I was supposed to be at a lecture on literacty standards. I let the devil call the shots and horror of horrors, I drove home with about forty ounces of beer and a shot of bourbon in me.
I should have just slept, but Shirelle made a surprised drop-by to retrieve her mirror from the garage. I had to move the car out of the way and carry it out to her truck. Then I carried a big potted plant downstairs for her. I said, "What was the point of moving the mirror to the garage? Just making sure I don't use it?
"I was just going to come and get it out of there without bothering you," she said.
What could I do but smirk?
I shut the door and locked it. I went back to the couch and suddenly couldn't nap anymore because lost-love anxiety kicked in with a vengeance. In about two minutes, I had broken down and paged her. She called from Seven Eleven. I said I wanted to talk to her. She said, "Uh-oh, I hope it's nothing bad."
"No," I said optimistically.
She said she was going to drop the stuff off and then she'd come back. (To be continued)
I tried to sleep while I waited. It was useless. An hour or so later she knocked on the door. It was close to time to go to work. I called downstairs, "The door's unlocked."
"No, it's not," I heard, muffled through the door.
I descended the stairs and opened the door. It wasn't locked. We walked up. I collapsed on the couch. She sat on the La-Z-Boy. I asked could we kiss. She said she guessed so. Neither of us moved. After a while I got up and went over and kissed her awhile. She's got a superlative kisser, though she doesn't quite use it to its full potential. We stopped. I went into my room and lay on the bed. We lay together a while. I asked if she wanted a blow job. She said no, she'd eaten some bad mussels. So we batted some blame around until we were both disgusted. I couldn't stand to hear how wrong she is about everything. "Just go," I said. "Go on." I waved the back of my finger as if to shoo her away. She screamed and threw her purse down the stairs and then her keys and started a curse-filled tirade to herself.
"Good-bye, Shirelle," I said. "I love you."
"I love you, too," she said. "Too bad I'll never see you again," and she slammed the door.
I'm not exactly burning to express anything today. I'm feeling like a dumb-ass for drinking at the Sheraton yesterday when I was supposed to be at a lecture on literacty standards. I let the devil call the shots and horror of horrors, I drove home with about forty ounces of beer and a shot of bourbon in me.
I should have just slept, but Shirelle made a surprised drop-by to retrieve her mirror from the garage. I had to move the car out of the way and carry it out to her truck. Then I carried a big potted plant downstairs for her. I said, "What was the point of moving the mirror to the garage? Just making sure I don't use it?
"I was just going to come and get it out of there without bothering you," she said.
What could I do but smirk?
I shut the door and locked it. I went back to the couch and suddenly couldn't nap anymore because lost-love anxiety kicked in with a vengeance. In about two minutes, I had broken down and paged her. She called from Seven Eleven. I said I wanted to talk to her. She said, "Uh-oh, I hope it's nothing bad."
"No," I said optimistically.
She said she was going to drop the stuff off and then she'd come back. (To be continued)
I tried to sleep while I waited. It was useless. An hour or so later she knocked on the door. It was close to time to go to work. I called downstairs, "The door's unlocked."
"No, it's not," I heard, muffled through the door.
I descended the stairs and opened the door. It wasn't locked. We walked up. I collapsed on the couch. She sat on the La-Z-Boy. I asked could we kiss. She said she guessed so. Neither of us moved. After a while I got up and went over and kissed her awhile. She's got a superlative kisser, though she doesn't quite use it to its full potential. We stopped. I went into my room and lay on the bed. We lay together a while. I asked if she wanted a blow job. She said no, she'd eaten some bad mussels. So we batted some blame around until we were both disgusted. I couldn't stand to hear how wrong she is about everything. "Just go," I said. "Go on." I waved the back of my finger as if to shoo her away. She screamed and threw her purse down the stairs and then her keys and started a curse-filled tirade to herself.
"Good-bye, Shirelle," I said. "I love you."
"I love you, too," she said. "Too bad I'll never see you again," and she slammed the door.
posted by johnz at 10:57 PM
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