“Listen,” he says, leaning in real close. “My father used to tell me that anything that floats, flies, or fucks, you should rent, and never buy. My first two wives and my boat were the most expensive things I ever owned.”
And I can’t help but think that maybe the reason he’s no longer married is because he acquaints marriage with ownership, but that’s none of my business. *sips tea*
He goes on talking, telling me all about the bar he got kicked out of last week because he told the tender she had nice ass. How bullshit it was. And I’m thinking he’s about to get kicked out of another.
And he keeps digging that hole the dirt is springing up left and right the shovel keeps going at it. He is persistent, I’ll give him that much. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear about the sexual harassment lawsuits he’s had waged against him, amounting somewhere in the area of 400k total I’m wondering how he can even afford to be sitting here sipping at his Titos. But hey, if money can buy you the presidency, can’t say I’m surprised.
“Hey, Shay, you could sue me for sexual harassment, and you could take the winnings and buy yourself a pair of tits.”
And despite the fact that I hate lawsuits and liturgy, I’m tempted to take him up on the offer. But I wouldn’t use the money on tits, I tell him, I’d use it to buy myself a 6th degree. I’d use it to make a thousand photocopies for him to wallpaper his house with, so he’d always be reminded of how much fucking smarter I am than him.
I decline his offer. Tell him I’m not into the maintenance—I’m too low key for that. I barely run a brush through my hair in the morning.
“I bet your boyfriend loves that. You’re a little young to be letting yourself go, aren’t you?”
And then there comes the clincher. He drops a bomb unlike any I have ever heard it’s Hiroshima Nagasaki all over again this bar is about to implode and all the shattered slivers of glass have one target, him.
“Have you ever had a kid?” He asks.
I tell him no and chuckle, carry on polishing the wine glass in my hands.
“Huh, I was just wondering. Because you don’t have tits and your stomach is flat, but you’ve got a big ass.”
And I’m not certain if that is meant to be a compliment or not. I’m not certain if he’s testing the waters, trying to gauge how much he can get away with. Maybe he’s trying to get kicked out of another bar. Or, maybe, he’s just got a hard on for lawsuits. He’s definitely got a hard on for something.
But either way I’m not playing. Because it is not, at any moment, at any time, okay to say something like that. And obviously you just had to sell your boat to front the cost of your lawyer and you’re clearly going through one hell of a mid life crisis, or at least, I would assume so due to the acid washed jeans and Affliction tee shirt and the fact that you’ve had a perpetually runny nose for the last three months, but that doesn’t mean you come into my bar and take it out on me. Oh, and speaking of letting oneself go, your expanding waistline indicates that you started that process ages ago.
My stomach is flat because the fury I experience at language like yours is powerful enough to burn calories like a lit match to gasoline. My ass may be big, but all that means is you’re getting a front row seat to me walking away from you, and that’s all you’ll ever get. And yeah, my tits are small. I like them just the way they are; so does my boyfriend, who isn’t, and will never be, you.                                                                                                                                          Good luck with your rentals.  Piece of advice?  Get the added insurance policy.  You’re the reason it’s an option in the first place.