Aw, it’s you

The fan in my apartment was broken.

The woman I’d been with for seven years — she was still there, but it felt like living with a wraith who kept stealing your socks.

We had nothing left to say.

She’d talk about yoga and her mother’s goddamn blood pressure, and I’d nod like a goddamn dashboard bobblehead.

Seven years with the wrong woman. More than a man can stand.

That morning, the classifieds were spread out on the kitchen table, next to a half-empty glass of bourbon from the night before. She was in the shower. I wasn’t even looking for anything. But there it was — lethal as a Watchtower pamphlet slipped through the mail slot. A message from God. Or maybe Garner Ted Armstrong.

If you like Piña Coladas, and getting caught in the rain, If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain …

I laughed. Not a real laugh. One of those huffs that comes out of your nose when you know you’re about to do something dumb.

If you like making love at midnight in the dunes of the Cape …

Who writes this crap? I read it again. And again.

Maybe it was the bourbon still working its way through my liver, but I felt something shift. Not hope exactly. More like a head full of ideas that were driving me insane.

I went to the Olivetti. The ribbon was fraying and just about dried up, but hell — I banged out a response:

Yes, I like Piña Coladas, and getting caught in the rain. I’m not much into health food, I am into champagne …

I wrote it like a man scratching lottery tickets with a dime from a phone booth. I didn’t care anymore. Seven years with her and I felt like a houseplant getting watered once a week.

A spindly dieffenbachia. By a frosted window. In the coldest, shortest days of winter.

Mailed it that night, then got drunk at Mickey’s until someone threw up on the Wurlitzer. Realized it was me.

We agreed to meet at O’Malley’s, a sad little bar that smelled like mould and old men. I got there early, chain-smoked two cigarettes and stared at the rain dragging its belly across the windows. The old men stared at me.

Then she walked in.

And holy hell — Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

The same woman I’d been sleeping next to for seven years. Same irritating laugh, same chipped pink nail polish. Same terrible taste in music. Same everything.

She looked at me, blinked twice, pretended to smile. A slow, crooked thing. Not anger. Not even surprise. “Well, ain’t this a sonofabitch.”

We laughed. Real this time. Didn’t have to try.

Turns out we both hated yoga. Turns out we both liked fluffy drinks with umbrellas in them. Turns out we are all here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.

We booked a vacation in the dunes at the Cape a month later.

Bored the living crap out of each other. Had a bit of a blow-up.

She came back three days early.

By the time I staggered home, Death had taken the dieffenbachia.

The fan had given up trying.