Do We Need Cynar? 8

September 21, 2010

Should I be at Bloomingdale’s? Is Bloomingdale’s where you buy a gift for the mistress? Or should I be at Kiki de Mont-whatever, the store that sells kinky underwear? Would M. wear the kinky stuff? Or would she laugh and say Return it and buy me something at Bloomingdale’s? Isn’t that Kiki place super-expensive? How much do you spend on the mistress if you’re broke and your restaurant is in the shitter? A hundred? Two? What about a Metro Card? A Metro Card she could only use to come to my place? That way it’s romantic; but would she see it that way? Doesn’t M. have a twisted sense of what’s romantic and what’s not? Didn’t she spread Us Weeklys on her bed before seducing me once? And when I asked what the deal was, didn’t she say, It’s just a thing I do, please let me have this? And didn’t I let her have it, risking a paper cut? Was it weird to lock eyes with Kim Kardashian while M. did stuff to me? Why have I never liked Kim Kardashian? Am I threatened by women who are built like battleships? And afterward, while M. was throwing them away, didn’t I ask again: So what’s the deal with the Us Weeklys? And she said: I will answer your question with another question: Why do you have to know why the girl you’re fucking does certain things while she’s fucking you? You can ask your wife why she does things but you can’t ask me, OK?

Will this gift make things right between us or will she take it as an insult?

-What’s in the box?

-A gift.

-For me?

-Yes. Open it.

Why doesn’t she look happy? Why is she opening it so slowly?

-Gee, thanks. I can always use more slutty underwear. In fact, I’ll wear at my next job: being a prostitute. I’ll start right now: I need you to pay me to fuck me from now. I’m broke. And I’m gonna be broker once we go under.

Is she drunk right now? Is it even noon yet?

-We’re not going under. I have great news. The wife’s parents came to the rescue. They’re investing. But there’s a condition: we have a new assistant manager, a kid, the wife’s nephew. And he’s a retard. Don’t have sex with him.

-You are such a prick.

-What? I’m just saying, don’t fuck him. Because I know you may want to. And it would complicate things.

-Get out. This is over. And I quit.

-Why?

-If you don’t why then you haven’t been paying attention to anything I’ve been saying. Out.

Can you return kinky underwear? Don’t I need the ninety dollars? Couldn’t I buy seven packs of cigarettes with ninety dollars? What if the underwear hasn’t been worn? What if all the tags are still on it? What if it was shoved into your arms in disgust by a woman who never wants to see you again? What if that only made you crazier about her?

-I’d like to return this. It hasn’t been worn.

-Sir. How do we know that?

-The tags are still on it.

-Sir. Given the nature of the item, I’m afraid we can’t do a return, tags or no tags.

-I bought it earlier today. Honestly, it’s never been used. For anything. Smell it. It doesn’t smell like Woman.

-I am not smelling this garment. Do you have the receipt?

-Yes, right here.

-May I ask why you’re returning it?

-Isn’t that a bit personal?

-You just asked me to smell for the scent of a woman on a piece of possibly used lingerie. That was a bit personal. You don’t have to tell me why, and I don’t have to issue a return.

-I bought it for a friend and she didn’t want it.

- I see. We can’t issue a return. Perhaps you should give it to your wife.

What is that guy’s problem? Doesn’t he deal with cheaters all the time? Isn’t it his job to help cheaters cheat? Who shops at Kiki for their wife? Does he enjoy making philanderers feel bad? Is that why he works there? Does he see himself as a romance cop working undercover in the trenches? And why do I bother wearing a ring? Wouldn’t it be nice if I was mugged and he took my ring? Wouldn’t he say, Give me your phone and your wallet, and wouldn’t I say, Don’t you want my ring, too? Take the ring; don’t you want my ring?

-So this is a little silly. But I thought you might like it. Open it.

-What is it? We don’t have money for gifts, Richard.

-Open it.

Why is she unwrapping it so ferociously? Has it been that long since I’ve given her a gift? Has she gift-starved all this time? How can it be that I’m both a terrible husband and a terrible adulterer? Shouldn’t a man be good at marriage or good at affairs, not terrible at both?

-I love it. I’m going to put it on right now. Come here.

Was that the most passionate kiss I’ve ever received? Has she been waiting for an excuse to kiss me so well, and with so much biting? Was the kiss worth seven packs of cigarettes? Should I quit smoking? Will it be harder to snag a new young girl if my clothes reek? Aren’t kids now raised to think that smokers are villains? But don’t some young girls want a villain for a boyfriend? Don’t girls move here from Sheboygan or Tampa or Muncie hoping to meet a nasty married man who will take them out to lunch and fuck them and then hide them in the closet when his kids come home from school? Didn’t M. move here from Lansing without any money or any job prospects? Didn’t she knock on the door of the restaurant an hour before we opened and beg me for a job? Didn’t she say she’d worked at Applebee’s back in Lansing? Why did I think that would be enough experience? Did I only hire her because the wife and I were fighting and I needed to get laid? And later that day after she’d gone down on me in the kitchen didn’t she say that there isn’t an Applebee’s in Lansing and the only job she’s ever had was babysitting her brother? Wasn’t she waiting to say that line the whole time she was blowing me? If she tells the City what happened on her first day could it affect my food-safety grade? Could it knock me down from a B to a C? What if they knew that she kept it in her mouth? Would that help? Would I have to testify in court? Would I become the Bill Clinton of the Brooklyn restaurant scene?

Do people even check those grades? If I had known that White Castle had a D would I have still eaten there regularly after leaving M.’s apartment? Will I ever eat at White Castle again?

NEXT: The Fourth Hang At The Other Laundromat

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