I’ve Got to Stop Thinking About This (Part: 2)

I had just scrubbed clear the largest portion of gunk from the glass pan when Sheryl approached from the hallway, her heels clicking and clacking.  She entered into the kitchen holding what I rightly assumed was an empty champagne bottle.  She stood by the trash, barely gripping the bottle above it.  Finally, letting it fall, she turned toward me.  

“Hey there.”  She said, clearly drunk.  “Know where I can happen to find some” she trailed off, “well, you know.”  

“Try the second door over there.” I said, nodding toward the cabinet behind her.  She turned toward the door, then back at me, then back to the door.  

“Well, well.”  She said, her head basically inside the cabinet.  “You’ve got quite a collection.  

“Technically we’ve got quite the collection, but yes, I do.”  I said.  

“Well, you shouldn’t have told me.”  

“You’re drunk.  You won’t remember anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”  She said, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the shelf.  

“Maybe you should slow down?”  I offered.

“Maybe.”  She said.  “And maybe you should mind your own fucking business?”  

“Well, you are taking my liquor from the cabinet.” I said.  

“I thought you said it was ours?”

“Who ever said that you were included in that conceptual ‘ours’?”

“Oh, now I see.  I see, I see.”  She said, beginning to pace around the island in the kitchen.  She was wearing all black and a bonnet with a net, black gloves to boot.  I watched her from the mirror mounted above the sink in front of me.  She reminded me of an actress but with none of the charisma and all of the entitlement.  I decided to take the bait, as I continued to wash the dishes.  

“What do you see?” I asked with a dash of sarcasm.  

“You’re jealous.” She said, mockingly, before knocking back a shot straight from the bottle.  “You want some?”  

“Sure.”  I said, turning to hand her two freshly rinsed shot glasses.  “But I’d rather not get my drool all over the bottle.”  

“I don’t seem to remember you minding my drool all that much.”  She said, the rim of the bottle gliding across her lips.  I cringed visibly before taking the bottle from her grasp and pouring myself a shot.  I swallowed the burning liquid, looked puzzlingly at Sheryl, then turned to finish the last few dishes.

“Anyway,” she began, “can you believe Reggie tonight?”

“You mean, can I believe that Reggie, the psychologically damaged war veteran had an emotional breakdown?” I said,  “Yeah, that’s not so challenging, but what’s eating Ron?”  Sheryl dropped her head so that she was looking up at me, her reflection in disbelief.

“You haven’t heard?”  she said.  

“Nope, apparently not.”  I responded.

“Well, Reggie’s been smacking Pam right on the ass every chance he gets.”

“Oh, great.”  

“The problem is, Pam hasn’t really been trying to avoid him, so Ron thinks she might be cheating on him.”

“With Reggie!?”

“Oh, God no.” she said, taking the bottle back from me, “but it’s sure suspicious how much it doesn’t bother her to be touched by other men.”

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t mean anything.”  I said.  

“If you say so, smarty pants.”  

Sheryl poured another shot into my glass before putting the cap back on.

“As for me, this was one fun night.” Sheryl started, “I got to drink, I got to eat, I got to watch one brother beat the living hell out of another, and last but not least, I got to pester you.”

“Well, we always enjoy pleasing our guests.”  I said, formally.  

“See ya’ around, bitch boy.”  She said.

“Later, boner.”  I responded.  Then she was gone.


I chuckled lightly and got back to work, taking a towel to the wet dishes.  


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