A No Win Situation

I arrived back from the local pub last week to discover that I had been followed. My apartment was full of men of different shapes and sizes. There was a shortish, plump one with thinning hair who was talking agitatedly into a cell phone and a taller one with a pointy goatee just standing around quietly surveying the place.

A skinny guy with ill-fitting glasses sat quietly on the couch reading Inca Gold by Clive Cussler. There was a very tall, very good-looking blonde one with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. That was my boyfriend, Win. This made it sort of difficult to break up with him but what else was new? I have been trying to break up with him for six months now.

The plump guy had come over to sell me some stocks. It turned out, however, that he had brought along the wrong briefcase. Instead of the one that contained his stock portfolios and calculator, he had brought one containing some French ticklers and K-Y jelly. He was jabbering on the phone to his mother, asking her to please, please look in his bedroom for the correct valise.

Mr. Goatee was just there to offer the stock salesman moral support although I failed to see how a guy with a mismatched socks and a “Same Shit, Different Day” T-shirt could offer support of any kind to anyone.

The guy on the couch claimed I had borrowed one of his Cussler books, but had failed to return it. I told him that he must be mistaken, I don’t like Clive Cussler, never read even one of his books, and he must have me mixed up with someone else. But no, he was very insistent that it was me who was pillaging his great literary collection and then proceeded to go into great detail about the plot of Iceberg, the book presumably in my possession.

At this point, I thought I would die but I figured trying to get my boyfriend’s attention so that we could have “the talk” would buy me a reprieve.

“Honey, I need to talk with you.”

“Uh, I’m kinda busy,” he said.

“With what?”

“This guy was telling me about some great stock portfolios.”

“But he doesn’t even have the right briefcase.”

“I know but we’re taking a ride over to his mom’s house. Wanna come with?”

“No, thanks, I’m set for French ticklers. You go. We’ll talk later.”

During the past six months, Win and I had grown further and further apart, the irony being that physically, he was always here. But whenever I wanted to talk with him about ending the relationship, he was always watching something important on TV, fiddling with his computer, on his way out the door or, worse yet, doing something incredibly nice like bringing me fresh sunflowers. And then, I would forget why I wanted to break up with him.

A delicious hot and spicy smell of onions, garlic and peppers was emanating from my kitchen. Upon investigating, I found still another man stirring what appeared to be a pot of chili. I was hungry and went to take a taste. Instead, I was harshly slapped.

“Don’t touch!”

“How dare you! This is MY kitchen!”

“That may be but your cooking sucks,” he said. “Ever notice how your boyfriend always seems to disappear around dinner time?”

I couldn’t argue there. Probably the only way we’d ever have dinner together was if we were held at gunpoint. I decided to take a hot bubble bath instead.

I lit a candle, lay back in the tub, the aroma of mangoes filling my nostrils, the steam cleansing the impurities and assaults of the day, my toes tracing the pink tiles on the wall. I fell asleep and dreamed that someone was caressing my shoulders and feeding me chocolate-covered caramels while I lay in a grassy field somewhere in Vermont. In the distance, a cow’s low, plaintive moan could be heard. It seemed to grow more melodic as time went by.

Awakening slowly, I realized that it was not a cow I was hearing at all, but a saxophone. Three men I had never seen before had decided to join me in the tub, one of them serenading me softly with Harlem Nocturne.

“What are you all doing here? Can’t I get any peace?”

“Sorry, but you asked us here,” said the one directly to my left, holding an empty box of Russell Stover. He had way too many piercings and tattoos for my liking.

“Why would I do that?”


“To avoid the unpleasant task of breaking up,” said the masseuse, who was not much to look at but had the most amazing hands.

“I’ve been meaning to get around to that…”

“But you haven’t,” said the chocolate bearer. “So now you must put up with some minor inconveniences. It could be worse, I might add.”

“I just want my life back!” I shouted.

Just then Win walked into the bathroom, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sharing a tub with three naked men.

“Your candle went out,” he said. “Let me relight it for you.”

“Win, sit down a sec. I need to talk to you.”

“Hon, can it wait until later? My hard drive just crashed and I gotta get to the computer store before it closes. I promise, we’ll talk later.”

“There might not be a later,” I said, but he was already out the door.

I turned to the guy on the sax. “Do you know any blues tunes?”