I just got busted. Boyfriend's cuffed me to a chair and he's shining a flashlight in my eyes. I squirm, and in doing so, hear the stitches in my yoga pants give. Oh no.
Why'd you do it?
I do what I've seen on television, I hock and spit at his face. Only, I don't have so much practice with hocking and spitting, so the phlegm/saliva concoction I worked up dribbles down my chin, becomes a long line of stretched mucus and gradually settles in a yellow pool on my knee. Rad.
Tough girl, huh? I've dealt with the likes of you before.
Boyfriend pulls his chair beside mine, kicks it with his heel so it spins a hundred and eighty degrees. It stops, and he sits on it backward like so many dudes in the nineties. He leans forward, his face getting closer to mine as he contemplates. The bridge of his nose compresses when he squints at me. There is no torture technique that can best me, he's not as tough as he looks. Then, Boyfriend opens his mouth.
Yous. Yous. Yous. Yous. You-
Alright, I'll tell you everything! Just please, no more Eastern-Canadian talk.
Boyfriend, seeing me crack, feels secure enough to pull a key from his breast pocket. Before I know it, my cuffs are on the table and my wrists are free. What is that table made of, beechwood? Beautiful choice, not for an inquisition room, but perhaps a cozy cottage.
Boyfriend bangs his fist on the table to get my attention. Oh yeah, right.
Why?
Because he's... he's getting so fat.
My hands cover my face. I can't believe I broke so easily. And now, nobody is safe from obesity. Boyfriend puts a hand to his ear. I'm not sure if it's because of my omission, or he's getting so old that he really didn't hear what I said. So I yell.
I SAID HE'S GETTING SO FAT!
He is not. Boyfriend looks down, and by his feet sits a spherical fur ball.
You made me fat. You made you fat. Fat, well, you definitely contributed to that mess. I thought I could save Mutt.
So you hid the dog treats. I nod. But you didn't hide them from the dog. I shake my head. You hid them from me. I nod again.
He looks at me like I just poured vinegar and baking soda in my mouth. My actions made perfect sense. The dog lacks the motor skills to jimmy into my bedside table. He's not the one I worry about. I worry about the middle-aged man who tries to buy affection with treats that give my furry little bastard another roll on his neck and a heart condition. For clarification's sake, by furry little bastard in the last sentence I meant Mutt... this time anyway.
Boyfriend loosens the tie around his neck while he digests the news. Yes, fool. You're the problem. You're turning all the inhabitants of this apartment into wannabe citizens of the United States. Perhaps pump up the fat content some more in our meals; we'll all be super sized and riding scooters in no time. Dream come true.
That's one crime solved. Now, what happened to the ice cream?
Oh no. There was so much. He's going to judge me for taking it down in one sitting. We were supposed to share. There's no way I can tell him the truth.
Yous. Yous. Yous...
Damn it.
Time for tea,
K
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