Megan. She gets worked up over everything.
It’s not like I called her a high school English teacher. Uptight. That’s what she is. Thank God I didn’t call her that.
And now I have to go buy her something.
When we met she was different, but she changed. They always go and change.
A change’ll do you good my ass.
I’ve been faithful to her; what more does she want? My life? My offspring?
She probably does. One day I’ll come home from work, want to put my feet up. I can see it now; I’ll open the door and she’ll be there, moved in by then. I already found a box of her tampons under my bathroom sink. She’ll look all fresh and radiant. An apron. Maybe she’ll wear an apron.
I’ll be weak and vulnerable because I smell pot roast. She’s the kind to call my mom and get the recipe. Hell, she’s the kind to make an appointment with my mother for a one-on-one pot roast lesson. The smell of the roast will hang in the air mingling with the smell of fresh homemade cinnamon rolls.
There I am, feeling like I finally made it. I come home to what I should want. She takes my jacket and gloves at the door. I am sure that we’ll be getting our money’s worth out of the mattress warranty later that night. She unties the apron, hangs it up. Did she go buy that apron especially for me because she knows I appreciate the look, because she knows about my tapes of sitcoms from the 50s? Her body language’ll tell me to have a seat. I’ll sit, smiling, expecting her to massage, you know, really rub down my feet. I’ll scan the room for that special foot lotion she bought me and my toes tingle in anticipation. I’m smiling and I’m ready…and then she’ll hit me below the belt with a meat tenderizer.
“Honey, I’m pregnant.”
I want to vomit thinking about it. I can just feel the slimy acid residue in my mouth. I really need a glass of water.
And now I have to buy her something.
***
Want to catch up on the story? Do it here.