Friday, September 2, 2011

The Stand-Off

Morning Readers,

     Right now, my patience is wearing thinner than the ice cubes in my high ball. He's not even trying to make it work. Everything was cake and free cigarettes, for a while, but that dirty, rotten traitor took our love and tore it into little pieces of regret. Someone still has a furry chip on their shoulder and wanted to rub it in. To say, "No, you will never have anything nice because you have kids and a dog, and that dog's middle name is Benedict Arnold. Even though it doesn't actually say that on the birth certificate." My Dear Readers, I'm sad to report the garage sale couch has been violated.
     "Uh oh.." Husband's voice sounded distinctly like the time he'd asked me to marry him.

     "Why "uh oh"? Sweetheart?....Muffin?....Light of My Days?"

      But before he could relay the details of the scene, I was two steps behind him, observing for myself. It wasn't the Great Pillow Massacre of 2010, but it was enough. A sadness I hadn't felt since the time I realized I'd been wearing my underwear backwards, all day, crept over me. Beautiful bargain fabric ripped open, zipper violated. He hadn't even had the decency to rip the side with the chocolate milk stain as big as the hole in our bank account.

     "Trust him", he'd said. "He's big enough to stay alone", he'd assured. From across the room, laughter rippled through jowls. I didn't say anything, just walked out. He didn't deserve my words.

     The next day, I made sure we'd bump into one another, knowing we get coffee at the same place.

     Leaning on the doorway, I kept it casual. "Hmm...fancy meeting you here. So..how are things?"

     He raised a brow and ruffled a paw through the sports section.

     "Oh, are we not speaking? You have a lot of nerve showing your face around here. You know how much that couch cost me? Fifty dollars. Do you have fifty dollars? I happen to know you don't. You're only two, and the bank won't let you open an account..but that's beside the point."

     Getting up, he headed to the door.

     "You know how much fifty dollars will get you around here? A year's worth of underwear, for one. And how do you think we're going to send all the kids to trade school? Learning how to be a professional fry cook isn't free." By this point, he was dancing on two legs.  "You're not pooping until you hear what I have to say." Fearing for the floors, I changed my mind. Disgusted, I let him out the back door.

     Husband managed to half close the cushion, but now, every time I sit down,  I have to waive the fluff out of the way to see what I'm watching. "Why are we watching White Christmas, in July?" I huff.

     "We're not. It's The Shawshank Redemption..." Husband soothes.

     I don't think I can take one more antic from the dog.  Although, if he messes up again, I know how I'll replace the cushion..

Until Next Time, Readers!