08-22-04 - 8:34 p.m.
the king of canals has a favorite and much overused phrase; i don't care.
me: do you like the woman character in this movie?
him: i don't care! it's hollywood! don't try to analyze me!
him (in a moment of restrained passion): you have a tattoo.
me: do you like tattoos?
him: i don't care.
me (in a moment of unrestrained passion): would you like to take me to bed?
him: i don't care.
me: then you won't care if i leave.
see bmoviemaven depart the premises in a hurry, leaving behind a fine bottle of pinot grigio. jerk, she thinks, determined to never see him again.
he appears at my register at walmart two days later. in front of a long line of customers he announces loudly,
"REMEMBER THAT BOTTLE OF WINE YOU LEFT AT MY HOUSE THE OTHER NIGHT? WELL, I FIGURED YOU WERE MAD, SO I POURED IT DOWN THE SINK."
see bmoviemaven turn a thousand shades of scarlet. asshole, she thinks, determined to never see him again.
he calls two days later. he wants to cook dinner. cook? a man? for me? i soften, and much to the disgust of my child, i go. and yes, he cooks, while his five weird dogs swarm around the kitchen. he is endearingly nervous. we eat, we talk, and i try to ignore the fact that his heart is locked up like fort knox. each time he says "i don't care," i call him on it. he laughs nervously. "you were a nano-second from getting lucky," i tell him, "and you said "i don't care." he laughs edgily. "don't take anything i say personally," he says. i do my best to control my lust, because this man is attractive. neurotic, but attractive. after a chaste kiss goodnight, i go home, exultant, because he cooked. turkey burgers and bud somehow redeem him.
two days later, he appears in my line at walmart, waiting behind a harried woman with a cartload of pampers and five hundred whiney kids. he is shitfaced drunk.
"HEY," he says, "THIS WOMAN IS IN MY WAY, WHADDAYA GONNA DO ABOUT IT?"
see bmoviemaven turn a million shades of pissed-off. fucking asshole, she thinks, and promptly writes him off. at home, three drunken messages are waiting on the answering machine. please come over. i'm searching for a lost dog, but please come over. i'm looking at some deer, please come over. i do not return his calls, and since he doesn't care, it doesn't matter.
today he appears at my register, divinely sexy in tight wranglers and a black stetson. every cashier in the store turns to drool. i politely refuse his offer of dinner and cherry tomatoes (the guy has a garden!) and ring up a package of jockey shorts. when he leaves, every drooling cashier turns to me in disbelief. he's the jerk? he's the asshole? he's the FUCKING asshole? are you nuts?
yeah. and i don't care.