Sunday, January 8, 2012
She tossed rusty daggers.
Hank sat next to me as rusty daggers flew past my nose. I felt her eyes and noticed Hank doing his best to hide in his wine glass. I peeked to the left and saw a woman with a disturbing combination of pain and anger. She must have been one of Hank's abandoned lovers.
"I think one of her daggers just wedged in my ear. Good thing I'm numb from the neck up."
"Right. Play innocent. I know my penis doesn't recognize her, so those evil eyes are for you, Hank."
"I was between relationships and I went there. She needs to get over it."
"It was a hit and run, right?"
A man in this situation is skilled at post-coital extraction. You hear the urban myths about people gnawing off a limb to escape. Men like Hank can slide their arms from under the lover (the wet spot can be used for lubrication) and slither from beneath the eighteen sheets, comforters, and pillows without disturbing the nest. The most skilled can dress while heading to the front door and avoid stepping on the pug and stubbing a toe on a pointless piece of antique furniture. Not that I've ever done anything such. (OK, I am missing a toenail.)
"Damn, Bro, she's angry. What did you do to her?"
"You definitely bruised her deeply. This was only one time?"
"Fine. Three times."
"In one night?"
"No, three different times."
"Oh boy. Your place or hers?"
"Mine, foolishly. In fact, she dropped a stack of love poems on my front step after a week of unreturned calls."
"Aw, how sweet is that?"
"Did you read them?"
"Let's see if I can conjure up the type of poem she left."
You're a heartless prick, with a tiny dick.
We could have been something divine.
You had your way, then left the next day,
and proved you're a pathetic swine.
"I know. Hand me that bar napkin. I'm tearing up. How could you, Hank?"