After the meeting is over, everyone slowly files out, and I walk up beside Kate. “Hey.”
She looks down at the folders in her hands and adjusts the coat on her arm. “Thank you for what you did in there, Drew. It was really decent of you.”
I know what I said the other day—that I was finished with her. I didn’t mean it. I was talking out of my ass, blowing off some sexually frustrated steam. You know that. Think Kate knows? Think she gives a damn?
“I have to do the decent thing once in a while. Just to keep you on your toes.” I give her a small smile that she doesn’t return.
And she still hasn’t f**king looked at me. What’s wrong with her? My heart begins to hammer in my chest as I run through all the possibilities. Is she sick? Did something happen to her mother? Was she mugged on the frigging subway?
Jesus.
Kate walks into her office and closes the door, leaving me standing on the outside. This is where men got the shitty end of the stick, people. When God gave Eve that extra rib? He should have given us something extra too. Like mental telepathy.
I once heard my mother tell my father that she shouldn’t have to explain why she was pissed. That if he didn’t already know what he’d done wrong, then he wasn’t really sorry for it. What the f**k does that even mean? Newsflash, ladies: We can’t read your thoughts. And frankly, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to. The female mind is a scary place to be.
Men? We don’t leave a lot of room for doubt: You’re a dick. You f**ked my girlfriend. You killed my dog. I hate you. Direct. Clear. Unambiguous. You girls should try it sometime. It would bring us all one step closer to world peace.
I back away from Kate’s door. Looks like I won’t be finding out what her deal is any time soon.
Later that day, I sit in a café across from Matthew, not eating my sandwich.
“So, Alexandra get to you yet?”
He’s referring to the Thanksgiving Day Massacre—in case you’ve forgotten. I nod. “I got the call yesterday. Apparently I’ve committed myself to volunteer next month at the Geriatric Society of Manhattan.”
“It could’ve been worse.”
“Not really. Remember Steven’s Aunt Bernadette?”
Old women have a thing for me. And I don’t mean a pinch-my-cheek, pat-me-on-the-head kind of thing. I mean a grab-my-ass, rub-my-junk, why-don’t-you-push-my-wheelchair-into-the-broom-closet-so-we-can-get-nasty kind of thing.
It’s f**king disturbing.
Matthew’s now laughing his ass off. Thanks for the sympathy, man.
The bell above the door to the café jingles. I look up and decide that maybe God doesn’t hate me after all. Because Billy Dumbass Warren just walked in. His face, at any other time, would definitely put a dent in my good mood. But at this moment? He’s just the donkey dick I need to see. I’ll be nice.
I approach him. “Hey, man.”
He rolls his eyes. “What?”
“Listen, Billy, I was just wondering, is everything okay with Kate?”
He snarls, “Kate isn’t any of your f**king business.”
Let the record show, I’m trying. And he’s being a prick. Why am I not surprised?
“I see what you’re saying. But this morning, she really didn’t look well. Do you know why?”
“Kate is a big girl. She can take care of herself. She always does.”
“What are you talking about?”
And then it hits me. Like a bucket of ice-cold Gatorade after a football game.
“Did you do something to her?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks down. That’s all the answer I need. I grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him up quick. A second later, Matthew’s there telling me to calm down. I shake the jerk off just a little. “I asked you a question, motherfucker. Did you do something to Kate?”
He tells me to get my hands off him, and I shake him harder.
“Answer me!”
“We broke up! We broke the f**k up, all right?”
He means he broke up with her.
He pushes my hands off and shoves me. I let him. He straightens his shirt, glaring. But I just stand there. Stunned. His finger stabs my chest. “I’m out of here. You ever put your hands on me again, I’m laying you out, dickhead.”
And with that, he leaves. Matthew watches him go, then asks, “Drew, what the hell was that about?”
Ten years—almost eleven. She loved him. That’s what she said. Ten frigging years. And he dumped her.
Fuck.
“I have to go.”
“But you didn’t finish your sandwich.” Food’s important to Matthew.
“You have it. I have to get back to the office.”
I sprint out the door to…
Well, you know where I’m going.
Her office door is still closed. But I don’t knock. Quietly, I walk in. She’s sitting at her desk.
Crying.
Have you ever been kicked in the stomach by a horse?
Me neither. But now I know what it feels like.
She looks so small behind that desk. Young and vulnerable and…lost. My voice is soft and careful. “Hey.”
Kate glances at me, surprised, and then she clears her throat and wipes her face, trying to pull it together. “What do you need, Drew?”
I don’t want to embarrass her, so I pretend not to notice the wetness that still clings to her cheekbones. “I was looking for that file…” Slowly, I step closer. “Do you…uh…have something in your eye?”
She looks down at the folders in her hands and adjusts the coat on her arm. “Thank you for what you did in there, Drew. It was really decent of you.”
I know what I said the other day—that I was finished with her. I didn’t mean it. I was talking out of my ass, blowing off some sexually frustrated steam. You know that. Think Kate knows? Think she gives a damn?
“I have to do the decent thing once in a while. Just to keep you on your toes.” I give her a small smile that she doesn’t return.
And she still hasn’t f**king looked at me. What’s wrong with her? My heart begins to hammer in my chest as I run through all the possibilities. Is she sick? Did something happen to her mother? Was she mugged on the frigging subway?
Jesus.
Kate walks into her office and closes the door, leaving me standing on the outside. This is where men got the shitty end of the stick, people. When God gave Eve that extra rib? He should have given us something extra too. Like mental telepathy.
I once heard my mother tell my father that she shouldn’t have to explain why she was pissed. That if he didn’t already know what he’d done wrong, then he wasn’t really sorry for it. What the f**k does that even mean? Newsflash, ladies: We can’t read your thoughts. And frankly, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to. The female mind is a scary place to be.
Men? We don’t leave a lot of room for doubt: You’re a dick. You f**ked my girlfriend. You killed my dog. I hate you. Direct. Clear. Unambiguous. You girls should try it sometime. It would bring us all one step closer to world peace.
I back away from Kate’s door. Looks like I won’t be finding out what her deal is any time soon.
Later that day, I sit in a café across from Matthew, not eating my sandwich.
“So, Alexandra get to you yet?”
He’s referring to the Thanksgiving Day Massacre—in case you’ve forgotten. I nod. “I got the call yesterday. Apparently I’ve committed myself to volunteer next month at the Geriatric Society of Manhattan.”
“It could’ve been worse.”
“Not really. Remember Steven’s Aunt Bernadette?”
Old women have a thing for me. And I don’t mean a pinch-my-cheek, pat-me-on-the-head kind of thing. I mean a grab-my-ass, rub-my-junk, why-don’t-you-push-my-wheelchair-into-the-broom-closet-so-we-can-get-nasty kind of thing.
It’s f**king disturbing.
Matthew’s now laughing his ass off. Thanks for the sympathy, man.
The bell above the door to the café jingles. I look up and decide that maybe God doesn’t hate me after all. Because Billy Dumbass Warren just walked in. His face, at any other time, would definitely put a dent in my good mood. But at this moment? He’s just the donkey dick I need to see. I’ll be nice.
I approach him. “Hey, man.”
He rolls his eyes. “What?”
“Listen, Billy, I was just wondering, is everything okay with Kate?”
He snarls, “Kate isn’t any of your f**king business.”
Let the record show, I’m trying. And he’s being a prick. Why am I not surprised?
“I see what you’re saying. But this morning, she really didn’t look well. Do you know why?”
“Kate is a big girl. She can take care of herself. She always does.”
“What are you talking about?”
And then it hits me. Like a bucket of ice-cold Gatorade after a football game.
“Did you do something to her?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks down. That’s all the answer I need. I grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him up quick. A second later, Matthew’s there telling me to calm down. I shake the jerk off just a little. “I asked you a question, motherfucker. Did you do something to Kate?”
He tells me to get my hands off him, and I shake him harder.
“Answer me!”
“We broke up! We broke the f**k up, all right?”
He means he broke up with her.
He pushes my hands off and shoves me. I let him. He straightens his shirt, glaring. But I just stand there. Stunned. His finger stabs my chest. “I’m out of here. You ever put your hands on me again, I’m laying you out, dickhead.”
And with that, he leaves. Matthew watches him go, then asks, “Drew, what the hell was that about?”
Ten years—almost eleven. She loved him. That’s what she said. Ten frigging years. And he dumped her.
Fuck.
“I have to go.”
“But you didn’t finish your sandwich.” Food’s important to Matthew.
“You have it. I have to get back to the office.”
I sprint out the door to…
Well, you know where I’m going.
Her office door is still closed. But I don’t knock. Quietly, I walk in. She’s sitting at her desk.
Crying.
Have you ever been kicked in the stomach by a horse?
Me neither. But now I know what it feels like.
She looks so small behind that desk. Young and vulnerable and…lost. My voice is soft and careful. “Hey.”
Kate glances at me, surprised, and then she clears her throat and wipes her face, trying to pull it together. “What do you need, Drew?”
I don’t want to embarrass her, so I pretend not to notice the wetness that still clings to her cheekbones. “I was looking for that file…” Slowly, I step closer. “Do you…uh…have something in your eye?”
