Not quite ready to accept the agony of defeat, I asked my ex-wife out on snapchat for a New Years Eve dinner. She said that when I called her a loquacious, soggy bottom lunatic, it was the coup de grâs of our relationship and she wouldn’t agree to even a cocktail.
“But I made us a reservation at the Bezoar Café. I hear they have fabulous tofu.”
“Unbelievable! Are you calling me fat again, George?”
“No, no, they also have superlative chocolicious cake, and of course there’ll be decorous conversation and champage with extra bubbles.”
“There is always some disparity in your story. You make everything sound like a proverbial fairy tale, then you turn into a malicious asshole, give me a “prescription” that makes me sleepy and I end up in handcuffs while your “friend” joins us.”
“That’s ludicrous. Just because our relationship wasn’t all jetsetting and fuzzy unicorns doesn’t mean we don’t have an amazing connection. Cauterize my broken heart, Melinda.”
“I bequeathed everything to you in my will.”
“You destroyed our relationship and told me I smelled like lochia. I’m bored with this conversation.” And with that she hung up the phone.
“Happy Fucking New Year,” I mumble to myself.