Our Millionth Fight

Late afternoon last Friday, Tammi Gymnastics called me from the gym screaming “I hate these fucking kids! One of them broke TWO of my nails this time!” I was in the middle of getting it on aboard the couch with a constable who had just served me with a summons and complaint, but I knew from Tammi’s tone in her voice that a) she was hungry, and b) she needed a girlfriend. So I invited her over for dinner. After hurrying up with the hand job, I quietly dismissed the gentleman by giving him a wad of toilet paper and my phone number.

Once Tammi arrived, she shoved her hand up so close to my face, I whimpered a little bit. “LOOK, BITCH!” she wailed. And then I saw it: one of the low-level-parents-must-be-smoking-good-shit-if-they-think-their-kid-is-going-to-the-Olympics brats broke Tammi’s pinky coke nail she had been growing for months. Her ring finger had some damage too, but that was paltry in comparison to what Tammi considered her greatest work of art. We embraced, and I fixed her wig a tad. She was still unnerved, so I mixed her favorite drink, a Michelob Ultra with two fingers of Tab. She greedily clawed at the cocktail, and poured it down her gullet. “Feel any better?” I asked while popping open another beer. “Toots, I don’t know how much longer I can take it,” she bemoaned. “Alls they seem to care about anymore is tormenting me...” I let her get it all out.

Well after dark, Tammi seemed relaxed enough, so we took a break from chain-smoking beneath my parking stall to get to dinner-making. I began clanging pots and pans together, but Tammi said, “I need to stretch first.” She slammed the coffee table against the couch, and it made a cracking noise because it’s a cheap piece of shit Ikea table that buckles under the pressure of a small water glass. I looked over at her with eyes a-blazing that said “if you force me to go back to that giant store from hell to get a new table you lousy son-of-a-bitch, I will drink too much rum and vomit all over your stiletto collection.” She coughed up a little smoke leftover from her last cigarette and weakly smirked at me while petting the table top. That’s the closest Tammi gets to apologizing and I knew it, so my brow furrowed a little less, and I resumed pouring way too much corn starch into the sauce I was making.

Tammi lay down on her back, and pressed her legs out spread-eagle against my green rug. I noticed several pubes popping out of her leotard, and muttered something rude about overgrowth. I was in a bad mood now, and it was effecting my cooking, so I carefully stepped over Tammi’s torso and turned the television on to Judge Judy. We both heaved a sigh of relief when we saw it was going to be one of those good episodes where a little kid had to go up to the stand to testify while one of his parents shuffled around uncomfortably because he knew J.J. was about to bust their child telling a father-fed lie. “I think that kid is cute. He’s got a real chisel-ly face for a nine-year old,” Tammi remarked. She was upside down in a backbend with a dozen necklaces hanging across her face. Her view may have been obstructed by a gold crucifix, but Tammi was right – that boy was hot.

I finished cooking the chicken à la blah blah blah, and went to work uncorking a four dollar bottle of wine. Tammi finally felt up to helping, so she wiped all my bills off the coffee table with one swing of her giant arm to clear room for our plates. Half of the cork fell through the wine bottle. Fuck! Something was wrong today. I could feel the panic swelling up in my throat, and got a little dizzy. My fuck-me heels were finally starting to give out as I walked the food over to the table. Tammi was already on the phone trying to get a date with a recently divorced dad she knew from the gym. My face turned crimson. Tammi sensed something dark, and looked up from inspecting her ruined nails. “Hey Frank, hold on a sec.” She put her hand over the microphone, and asked, “Honey, are you feelin’ alright? Uh, hold on…Frank, I gotta go.” My cat Sofia, who was watching this commotion unfold, let out an ominous cackle. I glanced over at the cat staring at me, and then gazed back at Tammi, who was shaking her head quickly back and forth. I threw the plates of crappy food onto the table and shrieked, “GET OUT OF MY FUCKING APARTMENT, YOU LAZY ROTTEN ASSHOLE!”