Typical Sunday Morning Conversation

(I'm lying in bed, flat on my back, hung-over from too many margaritas at Saturday night's Mexican restaurant, and too many beers at home before and after. Two blankets are wrapped around me -- tucked snuggly under my sides to prevent the wide release of stink-bomb gas expectorated during the night -- another side effect of the Mexican restaurant.)

(I reach blindly for my water bottle that is stationed on the floor next to the bed, on the right side, my side, in the narrow gap between the edge of the king-size pillow-top and the wall. I fumble for it, try to grab the cap like the crane claw in one of those impossible arcade games where you put ten dollars in to try to win a ten cent stuffed turtle you don't even want and never get anyway. I miss the cap, but my fingers glance off the side just enough to knock the bottle over on its side. It promptly rolls under the bed where it becomes the newest addition to a rapidly growing water bottle garden that has been thriving in the sub-box-spring shade for a year or so. At two cents a bottle, the recycled value of that garden, were it ever harvested, would be about a buck. )

(She's up, teeth brushed, dressed in workout clothes and about to leave for the gym. It's nine-twenty in the a.m. The boy cat is lying on my chest, purring. She comes around and sits on the side of the bed. )

"I'm going."

"You're leaving? You're leaving me?"

"No, I'm not leaving you."

"Well, where are you going?"

"The gym."

"Are you coming back?"

"Of course I'm coming back. Will you make some coffee?"

"You're leaving me without making coffee first?!"

"Come on, I make it every day. You can do it once."

"I don't know how."

"Yes, you do."

"Do you have friends at the gym you like better than me?"

"No, silly, I don't have any friends there at all."

"None?"

"Nope."

"Awww, poor baby." (I pat her on the back.) "Poor little friendless baby. Nobody likes you, it'll be Ok, I like you."

"You do?"

"Not really."

(exasperated look)

"What do you want for dinner?"

(a moment of reflection)

"Cow tongue sandwiches."

"No."

"Armadillo stew."

"No."

"Fried skunk heads in rattlesnake gravy."

"Yuchh, come on I gotta go. My spinning class starts in ten minutes."

"Doesn't that make you dizzy?"

"No. What do you want?"

"Sushi."

"Sushi? OK, we can have sushi, I'll pick it up on my way back from the gym."

"Penguin sushi."

"Stop it, that's disgusting."

"Quiche."

"Quiche? You want quiche instead, Ok."

"It's raining out, I want something warming."

"OK, quiche is warming."

"And sushi. Sushi and quiche. A one-two, new-wave, Yuppie combo platter."

"Can I get pour-a-quiche? We like that, it's good. We've had it, remember? You liked it."

"No."

"No?"

"No. Sushi, no, sashimi, and quiche. Quiche made from scratch."

(another exasperated look)

"Can I get pour-a-quiche? We liked it, remember? It's very good."

"Pour-a-quiche is an abomination. My mother must be cart-wheeling in her grave."

"You're mother's not dead, stupid, don't say that, you're awful. You're going to hell. That's it, we're having nothing."

(She smacks me in the stomach, startling the cat, and gets up forcefully.)

"Pour-a-quiche?"

"Pour-a-quiche. It's very good. You liked it." She stalls her exit stomp in front of the dressers.

"Is it organic?"

(She continues her stomp out of the room and whips the door closed behind her in an effort to slam it, but to little effect. The door is light and hollow and the bottom rubs on the rug. When it comes to a stop it's not even closed all the way. The cat springs off me and scampers out after her. Traitor.)

(I fall back asleep. She returns, an hour and a half later, still stomping and now sweaty and full of endorphins.)

"Thanks for making coffee."

"Huh?" (I'm dead asleep in the middle of a dream when she walks in. In the dream, I'm still single and dating -- a stripper.)

"Oh, sorry. I fell asleep."

"Whatever. Do you want to go to the grocery store with me in a little bit, do the shopping for the week?"

"No."

"Just for something to do, get out of the house for a while..."

"No."

"We can get the stuff for dinner and we need coffee and cat litter and a bunch of other stuff."

"No."

"Come on, let's get out for a while."

"To the grocery store? Big fun."

"It's got to be done anyway, and it's crappy out."

"Forget it. I've made other plans."

"What plans?"

"Some pals and I are meeting a few dancers from Razzles at T.G.I. Fridays for cocktails and appetizers. They've got a new five-dollar fried onion that comes out of the machine looking just like a bust of Dick Cheney. It's fabulous."

"Yes, you're coming to the store with me."

"Hand me my gun."

"Get up. Take a shower. We're leaving in half an hour."

"I'll be dead and cold in half an hour. You'd better call the coroner. Don't worry, I'll leave a note so they won't suspect foul play."

"Stop it. Get up. It will get us out of the house.

"The best we can do is the grocery store?"

"No, maybe by the time we get back the sun will come out."

(Here I launch into the Annie theme at top volume off key and off-tune. I'm tone deaf.)

":..YOU CAN BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR THAT TOMORROW, THEY'LL BE SUN..."

"SHUT UP!"

"JUST THINKING ABOUT TOMORROW..."

"STOP IT! That's really annoying."

"So is the grocery store. TOMORROW, TOMORROW, I LOVE YA TOMORROW..."

(She comes over and clamps both her little hands over my big mouth.)

"(muffled) Vou're alvees a dahhyyy avayyyyy."

"Come on, come to the store with me. Please."

"Okay..."

"No? We don't have to go, we can just not eat for a week. I don't care."

"Okay, okay."

"Get up." (She starts to rip the stink-cloud-encasing covers off me.)

"I wouldn't do that..."