“Right, so as the story goes, I was sitting at a red light with two choices: I could make a left and go home to finish watching Dahmer, or I could make a right and go back to my ex’s.” I tried to map out the freeway exit, of course I had to paint a picture for you. You nod confused, but this is your fault! You asked me, randomly, what happened to my nose.
“Did you finish Dahmer?” You asked eventually and belched into a closed fist.
“Obviously not.” I murmured and stared at my half-finished pornstar martini.
“You told me once, there was a 50-50 chance that you’d either get a hot-lay or a black eye seeing her. Either way you’d be up all night and sore by morning.”
Are you judging me? I downed the rest of my martini holding back gags.
You watched me, and sighed. “Well what happened?”
“Well… I turned right and drove down Fig. She’d always get mad at me for driving there because of all the hookers but she lived on Fig! Where else was I supposed to drive?”
You rolled your eyes. Of course you don’t have any sympathy for me. I wouldn’t either.
“Anyway,” I added. “I got to her house. She’s vaguely happy to see me. She squealed my name, asked how work went, and other stuff… Y’know she’s really not that bad.”
You scoffed. You still couldn’t fathom why I was so in love with her.
How do I even tell you the rest of what happened? Anya cradled my head close to her breasts while she continued to tell me all the prolific ways she loved me. She said she loved me more than life itself and dragged me inside her house. She’d push me onto her couch and straddled my lap, pressed kisses on my face, neck, and chest and begged me to never talk to another woman again.
We’d make love, and I’d try to pretend she didn’t send me hundreds of texts ranging between acting like nothing happened, vague threats, detailed threats, then long winded paragraphs begging me to just talk to her.
“So… the nose?”
I shrugged. “Right, well, point is I go to her house, everything is fine until about 3 when we decide to get lunch.” You opened your mouth like you wanted to say something, reprimand me for spending the night, morning, and afternoon with her but I cut you off. “She wanted to get lunch in Little Tokyo. She’s driving and she asked why traffic was so awful, I of course didn’t realise it was a rhetorical question and said ‘maybe because it's 3 pm on a Tuesday.’
She was uh… pissed, said I had an attitude problem and hit me while we sat in stand still traffic.”
You looked at me disappointed again. I don’t let you talk and get up. “I should go home.”
