Breaking up with her over a nice dinner is the best thing to do. Hear me out on this: we’re both dressed classy, there’s some wine, and it’s a Thursday night at the third nicest place in town. Sure, I could take her to the first or even the second nicest place in town but I may need those restaurants for future break-ups.
Amanda’s a nice girl so the last thing I can do for her is take her to some place we’ll both remember as “a nice time”.
It’s just that I don’t love her anymore. See, a couple of weeks ago we were in some post-coital position on my queen-sized bed and we were doing the typical sweet nothings whispering. And then she said something that made me wish for our relationship to land like a bad 9/11 joke— or an airplane on 9/11 for that matter:
“It’s just us against the world, Charlie,” she said.
And then I agreed with her— I don’t know why. The next sentence out of my mouth should have been “It’s over” or “I’m not into team sports”. Instead, I said, “I know baby. Just you and me.”
What a crock of shit, right? Us against the world? Come on. My friends don’t approve of her, sure, and neither do my parents. But those cunts are hardly “the world”. The whole “us against the world” comment would make me think that her friends and her parents don’t like me. I know better, though, because she has no friends and her parents are dead.
That conversation ruffled my feathers. The next morning she made me breakfast as if she didn’t know she had unwittingly ended the best thing going for her in her life. Me? I just wanted to get out of the house.
“Lets go see that new Ben Affleck movie,” I said. “I think it’s still in theaters.”
“He didn’t kill his wife,” Amanda said.
“Right,” I said, winking. “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“No. He seriously doesn’t kill her; it’s all a rouse.”
“Exactly. I want to see how he gets away with it.”
“There’s nothing to get away with,” Amanda says. She sounds pretty angry, but she’s still making me breakfast so I haven’t completely offended her sensibilities. She continues: “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“I catch your drift.”
“I don’t think you do. Anyways, I was hoping we could…”
Don’t remember what she said after that. What I do remember is I didn’t get to see the movie where Ben Affleck totally gets away with killing his totally hot wife.
What I do remember isn’t something she said but something terrible she did: Amanda made me ride to whatever it is we did on her motorcycle. I say it’s “terrible” even though one of my dreams was to have a girlfriend who rides a motorcycle. Until I met Amanda.
First of all: We live in a mountain town where it snows between November and April. Amanda seems to think this is the perfect place to ride her motorcycle around. She also claims to be a bad driver. She also thinks it’s cute to be a bad driver.
Being a bad driver is not cute. Being a supermodel in overalls, picking flowers with kittens, and blowing bubbles is cute. Pigtails are cute. The Powerpuff Girls are cute. Rabbit ears are cute. Being scraped off the side of the road is not cute— regardless of the involvement of pigtails, overalls, bunny ears, and the Powerpuff Girls.
The last straw was— is— her memory. Amanda’s memory was— is— at best, the kind of memory you could ask of a geriatric gold fish. She can’t remember how we met. She doesn’t know my birthday. She doesn’t remember—or know— her favorite food items.
No, really. One time she asked me what her favorite food was. I thought it was a test, you know? This was before I realized her brain had more static than a radio.
“What’s my favorite food?” she asked as we left a local sushi joint. Even though we just had sushi I knew that wasn’t the answer.
“Pizza,” I said.
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah. Is— was— that the wrong answer?”
“No, I guess not. I didn’t know the answer, actually— so I was asking you.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Where did you park?”
“We took your motorcycle here.”
Amanda’s memory was— is— so poor that she even regularly forgets her rights and lefts. This sort of thing would make planning where our friends and family sit at our wedding an almost impossible task. Luckily, as I said before, she has no friends and her family is dead. The only impossible task that comes out of her directional forgetfulness is driving. And elevators, I guess. Those are ups and downs but it still may be difficult for her.
Yes, she was the first girl— or woman, rather, that I was giving serious thoughts to marry. Or at least accidentally impregnate and then later marry. Because Amanda was— and is— extremely attractive. We’re talking tall, skinny, a quarter Chinese, and breasts. She’s a solid 9/10— that one point subtracted because she’s a vegetarian who eats fish.
This break-up would have happened sooner but her birthday is in early December, Christmas just happened, and I wanted to have a guilt-free New Year. Now’s the time to get moving— lest we start talking about Valentine’s Day plans.
Reservations are at seven. I’m assuming it’ll all be over by 8:30, although I’ll probably take some extra time with the dessert of creme brulee whilst she’s crying in the bathroom. Then I’ll take her home, take myself home, and maybe catch up on some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m like, 86 episodes in thanks to Amanda; it’s her favorite show.