“I didn’t know anyone wore shirts like that anymore.”
She was referring to my cowboy shirt with smoke colored snap-buttons. I had a bola tie but I lost it in the restroom choking that frat boy to death. I don’t really think that he was dead but I know that the woven leather wasn’t agreeing with the flesh of his neck. I had tied it a little higher than he could stand and when I left the men’s room, he hadn’t been choking his pleas for mercy.
I had shown him none. I would show her the same amount.
“Who wears those anymore?”
It was a valid question but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. From the moment she had set that sculpted leg into my car she’d been nothing but attitude. Not a cute attitude that displayed wit and humor but the kind that was malicious and unforgiving.
I spooned another mouthful of Margarita Chicken into my mouth and chewed deliberately. I was trying to remain civil but it was getting harder and harder as her true colors shown through. She was like a badger in Prada’s clothing and a tanning bed tan. I would’ve hit her but I didn’t want a bunch of make-up on my hand.
So I didn’t. I waited.
“Roy Rogers just called and he wants his shirts back.”
Hardy frickin’ har! It looks like we’ve got ourselves a comedian. She was making these side comments while shoveling her face with potatoes au gratin. It took every effort not to laugh at the mixture of Maybeline and cheese sauce that ran down her chin and into the valley between her silicone mountains.
Fake boobs, orange tan, platinum blonde hair and too much make-up. I was worried that she’d melt if they turned the heat up any more. So I re-filled my glass with the cheap Cabernet and lit a cigarette. Ah sweet Parliament, give me something to do with my hands so I don’t try and remove the butterfly tattoo on her lower back with my salad fork.
A butterfly on her lower back. We used to call them “butt rockers” at my old tattoo parlor. How original can you get; why don’t you just get a dolphin on your fuckin’ hip. Did your sorority sisters put you up to that or did you come up with it all on your own? Maybe Cosmopolitan Magazine mentioned that it would give you that alternative edge that it would take to get the attention of that gay Puerto Rican in your office.
I don’t remember seeing it in the last J. Crew catalogue but I could’ve been wrong.
“You look like a Rodeo Clown.”
Am I eating dinner with Seinfeld or is it just a ditzy Golddigger? It’s so hard to tell with all the snappy remarks coming from the left side of the table (as you’re facing it). I heaped another forkful of brazed asparagus into my cheeks and took a puff off my lit Parliament. The blue smoke was blowing straight into her eyes thanks to the air conditioning. I could of moved the translucent, brown ashtray but I didn’t. Secretly, I was hoping that it would irritate her eyes enough for her to remove those fake, green eyes she was trying to pull off.
Deep down, I guess I found her attractive. I mean, I wanted to make out with her earlier on in the evening; before she spoke. That seemed like such a long time ago. Now, I was chugging red wine like it was a Capri Sun and I still wasn’t getting drunk fast enough.
“Do you always wear clothes like that?”
Only when I’m on dates with Frigid Bitches.
“Yeah, I guess.” I feel like I should just play the role she’s used to. Don’t try and be wise or interesting, it would only confuse her. This was the kind of mind that only knows Cliff Notes and Frappucinos. If I were to quote Octavio Pas and have an opinion that pertained to anything else but her boobs she might explode. I’d never dealt with creatures like this but I’d heard about them.
Nice and easy.
For some reason, I felt like a wild animal that had been sedated and tagged. What was it that she wanted from me? My cigarette burned and the blue smoke continued to sting her eyes. She waved the smoke away in an over-obvious and animated way. Subtle hints don’t work on me. So I filled another fork full of mashed potatoes and swallowed the white, cottony mass.
“I’ve never been with a guy who wore vintage clothing.”
Alright, seriously! How many comments was that? You’d think that after so many songs from the annoying Mariachi Band that she would’ve found something (anything) else to talk about. But she hadn’t.
So I took action.
I ordered a bottle of the strongest brandy and excused myself to the restroom. The Mariachi Band agreed to play “The Lady Is A Tramp” for only twenty dollars and I made my disgusted way back to the table. She was extinguishing my Parliament and swallowing some food which I assumed she would purge later in a fragrant bathroom stall. With the edge of the linen table cloth in my hand, I yanked.
Tony the Tiger couldn’t have asked for any better. Nothing on the table moved but I was standing with a starched, white piece of cloth in my hands. So I threw it over her over made-up head. The bottle of brandy was teetering on its narrow axis so I grabbed it and broke it over her shrouded head. There was a faint squeal of discomfort and annoyance but the band played on. I lit another cigarette and the music swelled as I tossed the lit match onto the tablecloth.
I puffed away happily and put in a request for “Disco Inferno” as the room behind me lit up. I don’t care what version you’ve heard but nothing sounded better than that chintzy Mariachi Band’s strumming on their ornate guitars.
The evening air blew around me as I flicked my Parliament into a rain gutter. I looked down at my western shirt and straightened it.
The night was young and it was my time to howl.
Note: This is purely a work of fiction and doesn't stem from a desire to set anyone on fire or a hatred toward frat boys or women. Although I do love my cowboy shirts, I would never take this love to such extreme.