I come home and pour myself a scotch and she says, We need to talk, and I grab the bottle and sit down and hit myself over the head with it.
Tagged: Guys (1,814)
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We were at the hardware store and I made a stupid joke about screws, and then she left me in the Durable Goods aisle and she never returned.
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I told her to call me at four to disrupt the meeting and she called me at four and I told her I was very busy and she never called me again.
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She asks me what she has to do to shut me up. I tell her exactly what I’m thinking. Keep talking, she sighs. But I have nothing more to say.
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I tell her my story. I admit to embellishment, but only for their entertainment value. Because I’m a giver. You’re also a liar, she tells me.
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It’s too early in the season for flip flops, he says, throwing a sock in anger. We just became a couple, she beams. And he studies his toes.
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You can’t suck this in a manly way, he says as he unwraps a Popsicle. He’s talking to everyone and no one. To himself. And, always, his mom.
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He knows, right now, if he makes a move for her that he’s the worst person in the world. No, worse than the worst. He knows this. And moves.
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I packed my bags as she slept. She woke and caught me tiptoeing out of the bedroom. You’re a fat liar, she mumbled, figuring me out finally.
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I show her my guitar. I feel nervous. But, she’s not into my instrument. She wants to talk. About us. Did you even look at my guitar? I ask.
