Losing My Words

"I'm not a scumbag."

I took a sip and looked at him. I didn't really know what to say to that. I met him in a bar. There was a guy passed out on the other side of the table we were sitting at. Chances are he's a scumbag. Instead of responding, I remained silent.

"When I first came up to you, you narrowed your eyes, took a long drink, and asked me evenly, 'So what are you, the wingman?'"

I nodded.

"I told you I'm nobody's wingman. I do what I want to do."

I nodded again. The line made me laugh-- he won points for that.

"I went to the bathroom and you started talking to another group. I came back and asked you why. You said you didn't think I was coming back."

I didn't remember this, but I was on gin and tonic number six. It sounded exactly like something I would say, so I chose to believe him.

"When I kissed you, you pushed me away. You liked that I kissed you though."

I didn't think I pushed him away. Did I? Was it subconscious?

"I have been nothing but decent to you, and you are acting like I'm a scumbag. I just want your number. An e-mail address. No pressure."

Before I could respond, E charged up, "Is he being a douche?" She looked at him accusingly, "Are you being a douche?"

"No," I cut in. "He's been nothing but decent." I used his words; I still didn't have any of my own. Pacified, E returned to her own man of the night.

"I'm not a scumbag," he repeated.

Anxiety rose up in me, overtaking my entire body. I couldn't even give him my e-mail address.

***

Sunday morning I was sitting in the dining room of my mother's house. My mother was sitting Indian-style on the carpet, crying in front of an open window. My step-father had lied to her again. This was nothing new: I found my childhood diary a month before and apparently I've been writing since I was nine years old that my mother wanted to leave my step-father.

"I'm a prisoner in my own house," she cried.

My mother has always had a flair for drama.

"I paid for this house. If I leave him, then he'll get half. Half of my house. I love my house. It's the prettiest prison I could have."

Again. Flair.

"Maybe I'll just use reverse psychology on him. I'll feed him fatty foods and buy him cigarettes. That way he'll get cancer and die."

While I almost fell out of my chair for what my mother just admitted to me, she seemed to like the idea, "My friends' husbands lost the battle to cancer in about three months. That's not very long."

I debated saying she would feel really terrible if he did actually get cancer and die. That watching someone suffer is never fun. But I was curious to see how far she would take things.

"I think he has sleep apnea. Do you know what that is? He isn't getting enough oxygen when he sleeps. He could stop breathing and die from that. That would be quick."

No wonder. No wonder I end things over mouth-breathing and lava lamps and bad kissing. No wonder I spend more time testing men than I do trusting them. No wonder the idea of getting hurt by them gives me anxiety attacks. No wonder I am such a mess.

No effing wonder.