She said I was obtuse. “That’s not fair!” I snapped. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but based on past arguments, my guess was it was her fancy-schmancy way of calling me clueless. “You can walk into the bathroom right now and check,” I said. “The bar of soap is in its tray. All toothpaste residue has been wiped up. And the toilet seat is definitely down!” Or did she want it up? (There really needs to be an app for that.)
She made that long “Oooooh!” sound—half groan, half sigh. Then she shook her head and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps pounded so hard down the stairs they echoed.
I stood there watching because “our” couch was now on the truck. She said she only took her stuff. I soon discovered that “her stuff” meant basically everything except a mattress, a few rolls of toilet paper, and the beer I’d just brought home from the store. Had she really replaced all of my furniture in the year and a half she lived with me? (I did have furniture when she moved in…right?)
The muscle-bound driver was leaning against the front of the truck, waiting. She walked up to him like she was on a mission. I swear she glanced up at my window before giving him a long, deep kiss.
Maybe I am clueless. I definitely didn’t see that coming. Worse still, they looked like a picture-perfect postcard—her cover girl frame wrapped in the arms of Mr. Muscles. I suppose she got exactly what she intended—a total gut punch. It landed so hard it might’ve even cracked a rib.
It did explain how she was able to get movers on a Sunday—at the exact moment I was making my pre-game beer run. My favorite beer is only sold on the opposite side of town and apparently that gave the movers enough time to load everything up.
After Heartbreak Haulers took off, I dragged my mattress to the living room and flipped on the game. She’d left the electronics. If she’d taken those, I’d have known for sure she was snowing me about the furniture. I took a long swig of beer. Even that tasted bitter. I called my friend, Joe. After hearing my story of heartbreak, “Cabo” was his one-word solution. He’d been pitching that trip for a while, and now that the reason I kept saying ‘no’ had just stormed out the door, I had to admit—the timing was perfect.
Later, I found that stupid bunny Susan always slept with, like she was still four years old. I was about to grab Priscilla Cottontail and chuck her, but she looked so pathetic—worn out, lying face down on the floor, her blue fur badly faded—that I kind of felt sorry for her. So, I picked her up and sat her on the ledge of the living room window, looking out. I snapped a picture intending on sending it to Susan later.
Since it was blue I decided it was a boy and changed his name to Larry. Lonely Larry looked pitiful, slumped against the glass. I propped him up by wrapping his arms and legs around a beer. I figured that would get him through the time I was in Cabo—maybe even get him edgy and pissed off for when she came back for him. If she came back.
Maybe I am clueless.
Despite all the jokes I’ve heard about eating in Mexico, we wound up at a roadside stand in Cabo—beer munchies overruling caution. The taco I ordered was amazing. But the price was higher than advertised. Much, much higher.
Most of our four-day vacation was spent with me curled up on my hotel bed—or on the toilet—trying to ease the pain shooting through, and out of my abdomen. Sleeping was my only escape, which at best was a few hours of peace before I had to run to the bathroom again.
Mostly, I dreamed of Susan. I’d cleaned up the apartment and even cooked for her without burning anything (it was a dream, after all.)
Susan was surprisingly happy, smiling even. Until I dropped a bottle of red wine. It exploded, spraying everywhere—her clothes, her hair, her precious white rug. With even more muscles than before, Heartbreak Hauler magically appeared and drove her off into mover’s sunset.
They say you can change your dreams, but I know for a fact that isn’t true. Because if I could have, that damn truck would’ve stalled.
In another dream, Susan’s hair turned from blond to light brown. And she was smaller…Karyn? How did I end up at the office? She wore that same almost-laughing smile she gave me in the breakroom whenever I told a joke— even the ones that weren’t all that funny.
“How come you never asked me out?” she said, her voice soft and teasing. Then we were interrupted by a fire alarm. Over and over, it blared—until I realized it was my cell phone.
“Hello.” The voice that answered sounded weak and parched like an old man. The voice was mine.
“Hi!” Susan’s voice echoed with a level of enthusiasm I hadn’t heard since she first moved in. “How are you doing?”
“Living the dream,” the old man answered. She asked about Priscilla (yes, that really was her name!)
“I guess you got the picture I texted?” I said, thinking of that poor bunny staring out the window, waiting for the truck to return.
“Yes, but I knew I’d left it. I just…I just didn’t think I should bother you about it. But now,” she hesitated, “… now I kind of need it.”
“I wasn’t planning on keeping it,” I answered a little harshly.
“Okay. Maybe we could meet, and I could pick her up? For coffee? Or dinner?” I could picture Susan leaning in the way she did when she wanted something. “I don’t like the way we left things,” she said. “Maybe we could talk it over.”
I didn’t answer.
A few cracks appeared in her voice. Then gasps and sobs, and finally full-on waterworks as she reached the point of the call: her new beau had thrown her out and was holding her furniture hostage. “Did you pay the ransom?” I asked, still sounding like an old man.
She asked how I could be so insensitive. “Well, I have been told I’m obtuse.”
“I don’t want to fight,” she said, then launched into a monologue about how badly Heartbreak Hauler had treated her. When the hyperventilating stopped, she slid right into reminiscing about our good times, laughing about the misadventures I’d dragged us into. She asked if she could stay at my apartment—for just a few days, until she got her stuff back.
She kept talking, but I couldn’t focus. She was coming back! Two days was just a starter. I was sure of it. I was imagining the way her voluptuous body would feel lying next to me. Kissing me. “Maybe you could call John and talk to him,” Susan said, interrupting the fantasy. “You paid for some of the items, and he can’t keep stuff that I don’t fully own…”
Wait. What? Then it came back to me. I was on a business trip when the topic of new furniture came up. After a day of long meetings, I’d gone out for drinks with some of my co-workers and had kind of forgotten about it. “Your stuff is pretty old,” she had said that night. “Imagine how much better the apartment would look with a new couch and chairs.” She was “a little short” though and asked if she could use my credit card.
She was still going on about how badly she’d been treated and how much nicer I was by comparison when another thought struck me. I could see how in a fit of rage a guy might throw out his girlfriend and keep her furniture—but Mr. Muscles did this for a living. Wouldn’t he be concerned about his reputation? “Susan,” I interrupted. My voice didn’t sound like an old man anymore. “How many other times, besides the furniture, did you use my credit card?”
She accused me of being petty, cold, cruel. It was turning into one of her signature lectures when I hung up.
I had been clueless. Just not in the way she meant.
I kept thinking about the dream about Karyn—the one just before Susan’s call. I couldn’t go back to sleep. It felt so real, like my subconscious was trying to tell me something.
Karyn was nothing like Susan. Where Susan was loud, emotional, a Venus-like figure who took over every room she entered, Karyn was quiet, petite, with a warm sense of humor that snuck up on you. I guess I’d passed her by for something that seemed shinier—at least on the surface.
In football, they say you should have a short memory. If you got burned on the last down—forget the play and move on. Well, I’ve definitely forgotten certain credit card purchases. I’d love to forget the entire relationship—but maybe I should remember just enough not to repeat it.
When I got home, I’d pack Larry (er…Priscilla) in a box, leave it on the porch, and text Susan where to pick her up. I’d leave the bunny with the beer. Considering where she was going, that bunny might need it more than me.
I was definitely going to talk to Karyn. If she agrees to go out with me, I’m gonna need some new furniture. Just to be safe, though—this time I’ll be sure to keep the receipts.
Damon Yeargain has had numerous short stories—both fiction and nonfiction—accepted for publication. He tends to place characters in difficult situations to see what unfolds: sometimes humorous, sometimes inspiring, but always worth the ride. He lives in Livermore, California, with his wife, son, two cats, and a dog. https://fictionalfuel.com
