My bedroom is a very strange place. The first thing the girl sees when she walks in is a framed picture of King Tut hanging on my wall. I like to call him King Toot, and I do so whenever I talk to him. His face is locked in this perpetual half-smirk that really makes me want to punch him. I’ll greet him and introduce the girl to Toot, and he will simply smile knowingly at her. He knew a lot of women in his time, that Toot.
The next thing the girl sees is my guitar, which I have cleverly left out on the bed as if to say “Oh, sorry, I was just picking out an Amaj7dim chord before I went out, I really dig the sharps, you know?” That way, she’ll think I’m more sensitive then I really am. Once I move the guitar out of the way, we can get down to business. I sit down on the bed, she does the same. We stare into each other’s eyes. I say something smooth like “You look really pretty in that dress.” She says “It’s actually a skirt.” I lean in. She leans closer. I have to go to the bathroom. And it’s a full scale evacuation, if you catch my drift.
I excuse myself to the girl and to Toot and leave them to chat while I go drop the Browns off at the Super Bowl. Half an hour later, she’s asleep and covering the whole bed. I go sleep on the couch, using my towel as a blanket. King Toot just smiles. He’s seen all this before.
No comments:
Post a Comment