She Looked Good in the Dark in Dramedy

This is the start of something for creative writing…has to be about running into an ex and new g/f at a restaurant.

I should’ve known that Friday was going to be a sitcom with a cast of unsavory characters present, when I was awakened by my mother’s gnat-like voice on my answering machine. She was buzzing away some ridiculous message about me owing her $300. Of all the stupid things to call a person about. (I mean, Mother, I love you and all but really, darling, I have a life!) Then I ran into that dreadful bore of a superintendent, Mr. Bodley, who was being an absolute crank this morning over the complaints he had received over the party I’d had the previous night. Personally, I think he should be grateful–if it weren’t for me and my calibre of friends, the building would have no class whatsostinkingever. Some people! After I ta-ta’ed my way past him, I breezed my way to work–running into one awful bore after another, from the taxi cab driver who asked me to put out my Newport to the mail man who asked me to “kindly” stop fixing my lipstick in his truck mirror, so he could pull out of his parking spot. Still there was no piece of cheese at the end of the maze in this rat race. No. Instead, I sat down at my desk, only to see a message from a new client we’d recently taken on. His name was something like Mr. Soggybottom or Snaggletooth or Syphilitis. I don’t know. I couldn’t quite commit it to memory, he was just that forgettable. I was supposed to meet him for dinner at Grimaldi’s on the corner of 48 and Terrace Place for a meeting to go over the contract. I couldn’t turn him down. A girl needs a chance to wear her real pearls every now and again.

For being a man who had such poor taste as to wear that weak attempt at “Realistic Follicle” on his head, the restaurant was choice. As I looked at the menu, a veritable Who’s Who of Expensive Delicacies, I smiled coquettishly at Mr. Spermicide, and I’m not even sure coquettes still exist in today’s day and age. But there I was, smiling coquettishly, at this surrogate who obviously had a wallet as big as his old man stomach when they walked in. The blessed couple. Fred Astaire and Ginger Bucket O’ Crap. Desi Arnez and Lucille Manstealer. Mr. Stringcheese was in the middle of a sentence when–

Oh my goodness. My, he looked good in Armani. She looked good in the dark. (Seriously, I will retract the claws in a minute–but I just have to intimate, it is five o’clock everyday on that chin of hers!) The Reader’s Digest version of our history: I had been dating him for a year and things were going well. Sure, we had our fights–but anyone will tell you, a real lady comes at a price. Is it my fault if I like nice things? Anyway, this little ditty from the stenopool at his office performed some voodoo ritual, or something, and before I could say “Coco Chanel” he’d gone slumming. And then, he has the nerve to bring her to Grimaldi’s! He never even took me to Grimaldi’s-and they actually serve “my kind” here. Still, as I said, I’m a lady and thus, bound by the code of conduct that all ladies follow. I stood up in the middle of Mr. Slurpee’s sentence about “blah blah blah” and walked over to their table.

I was met with a look of “Oh my god, it’s coming this way!” by my ex. I smiled, toothily. In a tone that oozed insincerity, I sweetly chirped, “I come in peace.” Miss. Baffling Choice of Romantic Partners licked her lips in a way reminiscent, most likely, of the wolves who raised her.
“Why, what an absolutely charming-what do they call that again–oh yes, garbage bag you’re wearing,” I said, without ever letting the pressure up on my smile. I was still smiling full-blast as I patted my updo in an absent-minded gesture that, I admit, I practice for situations much like this. She pursed her lips as though she’d just put lipstick on and shook her head at me. I waited for the verbal sparring to begin. To my surprise, she looked down at her salad that shimmered with Italian dressing in the glow of the candle. She couldn’t possibly be in emotional fetal position yet, I was just getting started.
“Really, you must tell me–who does your hair? Your ape mother when she’s picking out lice? Really, it’s flattering. Such style.” I was still smiling, my fists were up and my one-liners were ready. I shadow-boxed around whatever insult she might throw at me. I goaded. I insulted. I was a prize-fighter, a marksmen, a sniper. I was going to take her out. However, it became less satisfying when she refused to play by my rules. She just looked down at her salad, and listlessly stabbed the lettuce repeatedly with her fork, but never raised the fork to her lips. I changed targets.
“Wow, Kevin, you got the girl you always wanted apparently. One without a spine who’ll just take whatever you dish, eh?” He sighed, “Alright, Trudy, you win. You are twice the woman that Beth will ever be…that’s why I chose her over you. You were just too smart, too good, too classy for me.”
“Thank you. That’s all,” I said, happily.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. SpecialEd called my name and I realized that I had been on mental hiatus for the past five minutes. Despite an incredible burning sensation in my eyes which now urged me to rub them, I had not moved or said anything during this lost time. I suddenly excused myself on account of sickness, and as I passed their candlelit table, I realized she was actually a very lovely girl, without even pausing.