I was sitting on a couch in Echo Park after cooking for my wing man, Charles. Charles and I attempted to date but Charles is a whore and, frankly, so am I. We decided to become co-conspirators instead. I was picking kale out of my teeth when I couldn't contain myself anymore.
"Dude. I don't understand. I just want my shirt back. It's my favorite shirt. It's not replaceable."
"HE HAS MY SHIRT. HE WORE IT BEFORE HE LEFT. BEFORE....UGH!!!!"
"Oh, right. That. Yeah. Fair."
"No. I think you're being totally reasonable."
Charles has never, not once, not even in jest, suggested that I was being reasonable before. I allow his this insolence from my wingman because Charles has a deep-seated intellectual respect for me. And, also, he also thinks I'm pretty. I like to be told I'm pretty. There, I said it. But I digress.
The now-ex-non-boyfriend...and my shirt...were due back in town after a seven-week trip. And I knew it. Shirtless-ness is bad enough. Shirtless-ness on account of gross negligence? Really bad. But divisive shirtless-ness? Dude. Not cool.
"So...NOW WHAT? He was supposed to just mail it back."
"Ask again, woman! You cannot share custody of a button-down."
"Charles. Don't be ridiculous. I have lost more valuable things in the wake of a break-up -- jewelry, shirts, ball gowns...pets -- in order to appear to give fewer fucks than the other person. I'm not...I mean, it's not my job to...NO. Just no. I AM DEFINITELY NOT...."
But at that moment, what I actually *was* was interrupted. Cut off by the pristine *ding* of an incoming iphone message.
Life is a funny little circus freak sometimes.
Obviously the particular contents of the text are between myself and the ringleader, but what is important to the progress of this story is that my shirt and its captor were arriving back into the 90026 zipcode...Would I still like it mailed?
Oh, how original. I read the text out loud. And before I could even look up at Chuck, I knew that he was testing the limits of his ocular muscles and smiling.
"Well, that's something. That's what you wanted...Right?"
"Yeah. Great. Just fucking great." I said, "Superb." I am afraid to look up because, for once, I have no idea what kind of expression is on my face.
"Crash and burn, sweetheart." Charles passes me a joint.
"Indeed." The embers crackle and I settle into the weekend.