True Story

This time was different. Usually, I’m the one that instigates these sorts of things. So I started steering the conversation plane somewhere safe to land. And here was Alexis, flapping her gums, but I couldn’t hear the words. So I grabbed her skinny-ass arms with my Hebrew National-sized fingers. “You can’t do this” I said, “You can’t do this to me. Not today.”

“Sure I can,” she said, pulling back as if my bulging digits had stung her something putrid. She even rubbed those skinny-ass arms as if she were allergic to my touch. This was a terrifying side of Alexis I’d never seen before. But I was also getting a boner from thinking about her skinny-ass arms. Birds were singing.

Alexis and I were standing in my backyard, but we weren’t looking at each other. I was looking at the abandoned loaders and excavators past my property. Nothing would be built past the fence until next summer but the local construction companies would leave their equipment.

She was looking at her feet. They were nice feet if nothing to write home for. She must have been thinking about the last week. I was, too. It had been a week of fighting over the phone. We were fighting because we should have broken up months– nay, years– before she moved to Lake Tahoe. So she made the drive down to Orange County to do the deed.

“Not today. You can’t do this today,” I reiterated, clenching my right leg to keep my half-chub from going full mast. Clenching a leg will re-purpose the blood in your body to avoid public boners, by the way. Works wonders in family court.

“Why not, Chuck?” Alexis said, crossing her arms as if my excuse was going to be complete bullshit.

“Tomorrow is 9/11,” I said. “It’s a national holiday. You should know that.”

“No it’s not, Chuck. It’s the 10th. Tomorrow’s the 10th of September.”

“Denying 9/11 like a true terrorist. So fucking typical.”

“I don’t even think 9/11 is a National Holiday.”

“Sure it is,” I retorted. “It’s like Christmas.”

Alexis uncrossed her arms and waved them in the air like a monkey. “What does that have to do with anything?” she hooted. “That has nothing to do with any of this,” she hollered. She was also hopping around, scratching her armpits if it helps your imagination any bit.

“Everything has to do with 9/11. Everything around us is because of that terrible day. That’s the way the world works. Don’t you understand or are you a terrorist?” I said. This break-up could have gone better. This relationship could have gone better. She pointed out what seemed obvious:

“This isn’t work–” she started.

“How dare you,” I interrupted. “This is work. And this isn’t working out.”

“I was trying to say that Charlie. You wouldn’t let me finish.”

“Oh so now you care about finishing?” This was an attack on our sex life. She never finished when it came to sex, and I always did. So if anybody should have been complaining about bad sex, it was her. But here we were, arguing about sex and terrorism like true Americans.

Tears started welling in Alexis’ stupid, beautiful eyes. Alexis would cry for anything. “There you go, crying. You cry for anything,” I said out loud. “You cry on birthdays, during break-ups, weddings…the list goes on.” Her breathing started getting heavier. Full blown water-works were on their way.

“We’ve never been to a wedding together,” she sniffled.

“And now we’ll never have one together because you’re breaking up with me.”

Kelly– I mean, Alexis— buried her beautiful face into her gorilla hands and walked to her car.

“You can’t keep casually denying our country’s legacy like this!” I called out.

“You’re an asshole!” she called back– without looking back. I was hoping she would look back. If she had looked back right there– right at this crucial moment– we could have had break-up sex. It wouldn’t have been very good break-up sex because our normal sex wasn’t, but at least it would have been sex. I miss sex. Are you still reading this? Does anybody read this shit?

Alexis had made it to her bullshit Yaris. I needed to get in the last word before it was too late and she was lost in the ether.

“What do you know? You don’t even remember 9/11!” I picked up some gravel and threw it in her general direction.

“I was three years old, Charlie!” she called out, before ducking into her bullshit Yaris.

“Yeah, that’s the story. You were three. Or maybe you weren’t. Maybe you were on one of those goddamn planes,” I screamed. But she didn’t respond. She slammed the door, backed out of the driveway, and went where all my ex-girlfriends go: somewhere else.

This was written at a third-grade level.

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