“No,” I squeak out. “They were regular text messages.”
Don’t fucking laugh, man. She will never, ever be able to look at you if you laugh. She will never forgive you. Remain neutral.
She crosses her arms over her chest and juts out her hip. “You’re telling me that my, err, my text about an immense amount of flatus was a regular text?”
Why did she have to use the word flatus? I was doing fine keeping it together until she used that word. Now I can feel the grin spreading across my face.
Trying to tamp it down, I say, “Everyone has gas.”
She studies me, her eyes moving back and forth, and then finally she says, “I don’t like what’s happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to act like everything is fine when, in reality, let’s just call a spade a spade, Eli. I texted you something I’d rather jump off a cliff than you find out.”
“Listen, it’s fine. If you want me to forget about it, I will.”
“Oh please, this is something you will always remember. The day the mother of your child texted you that she waited for you to leave the room so she could fart. That is a moment in a man’s life that he will remember until the day he dies.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, yes, you’re right. This moment will stick in my memory for a long time, but that’s a good thing.”
“How on earth is that a good thing?” she asks. “Do you really think I want to be recollected in your mind as the girl with the farts?”
“Because we crossed a line. Now you don’t have to wait for me to leave the room. If you want to fart, you can just fart.”
Her eyes narrow, and her finger reaches out and pokes me in the chest. “Over my dead body will I ever fart in front of you.” She then turns toward the kitchen, where she stops and sees the food on the table. She tosses her hands up in surrender and then turns back to me. “Look at what you did.”
Nervous that I did something wrong, like use her mother’s fine dining ware when I shouldn’t have, I look over her shoulder at the table setting. Everything seems to be in order, but I tread carefully. She seems to be highly emotional at the moment between the nausea and the farts. “Uh, is something wrong? Did I use the wrong plates?”
“Did you use the wrong plates?” she asks, her voice a next-level shrill. “No, you didn’t use the wrong plates, Eli. You freaking got me breakfast? Do you know how that makes me feel?”
Errr . . .
Can anyone help me out here?
I wet my lips and very carefully say, “Uh, bad?”
“Why on earth would that make me feel bad?” Tears well up in her eyes. “Getting breakfast, ugh, that was nice of you.”
Okay, so not in trouble?
But she’s crying?
Which, of course, makes me shrivel up like an old prune. I don’t do well with crying women. I don’t know how to act. Do I pat her on the shoulder, tell her “there, there, you’ll be fine”？ Do I give her a hug and not say anything? Do I offer her a tissue?
What’s a man supposed to do in this situation? We went from farts to tears because I got her breakfast. This is way past my comprehension level.
So I decide to approach with caution. “I figured since I don’t have to skate until ten this morning and you have the day off, it might be nice to have breakfast together. I hope that’s okay. Honestly, if you want me to sit out on the balcony, I can do that.”
She nods. “Yup, that was thoughtful.” Tears stream down her face. “Very thoughtful. And here I am, acting like a grotesque human, telling you about my farts and Dr. Big Pecs.”
Yes, she fucking mentioned him. Here is my in.
Sure, it might not be the best time to bring him up, given the one-eighty in conversation we just had, but I’m dying to know more.
“How big of pecs are we talking?” I ask, trying to add a jovial tone to my voice.
She walks over to the kitchen, grabs a napkin, and dabs at her eyes. “I said I was grotesque, and that’s what you want to know? The bra size of my doctor?”
Something is happening. Something I don’t think I’m mentally prepared for. I’m pretty sure from what I’ve seen in movies and on TV that the professionals would refer to this as hormones. The ups and downs. The crying over something that doesn’t seem that terrible at all. If I could put my finger on it, that’s what I’d guess. Now if only there was an easy map that showed me how to navigate through said hormones.