More football? Another frenetic day of blurred thrusts and parries? Last weekend I told this girl I met after the bars closed that although Dianna was a good wife, every once in a while, not frequently, maybe once a week, she'd...push me down the stairs. Or maybe, she'd crack a rib with a stiff elbow to the mid section.
"She put gasoline in your gin and tonic?" she asked, wide eyed with slam pig innocence. "That's terrible. No, if she's doing that I think you're wrong. I really don't think she loves you. No, it's not your fault. No you really can do better I don't care what your mother says."
Now, I can only assume that as I said this I thought she knew how ridiculous the proposition of Dianna tossing my underwear with lye was. I pointed out D$ when she stumbled into the room, a can of High Life clutched in a hand that would have better served as a support beam off the couch.
"That's the wife who abuses you?" she asked.
"Does what? Oh, yes...in fact I still have a smudge on my back from where she touched me with the belt sander Sunday night. You've got to admit, she's cute."
"She's insane. I'm going over there and saying something..."
She was serious. And, she was the only person in the room dead cold sober. A scary kind of sobriety lurked around her eyes -- focused-- corrupt -- Christian. She probably votes anti abortion, pro death penalty every year. Shit, she even had a cross tattooed on her throat. The shadow must have obscured it earlier.
She got up and set a course for D$. Intersting, I thought. I wonder how Dianna will react to this? Not well, might even say I'm a psycho.
"Miss, girl, woman with the blond hair...I know you're Christian and I'll admit I'm terrified of making you look like a joyless idiot, but my wife has never sodomized me with the grip nob of a rolling pin...or otherwise abused me. She's a sweet kid..."
"You...you... asshole!" she screamed at me.
Time to make peace. Get her to quiet down. Maybe even encourage her to forget the whole incident.
"WHORE!!!!!" I yelled. "She told me her pussy tastes like strawberry ice cream with only light undertones of fresh water salmon," I yelled to the roomfull of people. "'As good as it gets,' I recall her saying."
Well, my friends took my side and her friends hers, but I think that really it would have broken down on social lines no matter what and at least this way I was on the offensive. Push a little further and I bet I could have gotten her back to the dark times -- high school -- the eating disorder -- mom and dad yelling all the time -- her boy friend mechanically pumping away as she cried softly in the dark.
Oh, jeeze...is that what I have in store for me again this weekend? Is my life really my fault? I blame Dianna.