Another EveningWherein we cross the Street to get Ice Cream and ignore the rules of Capitalization.
September 16, 2003
Lanie comes home from Work and starts to cry. She collapses on the Sofa, letting Gravity do the work because she's exhausted, and she lies there limp, in a Stupor, and she tells me what an awful day she'd had. I offer to give her a Back Rub. That's when the Tears start rolling—discreetly at first, then the dam breaks and the Low Countries get submerged. She says sniffling: “I don't even know why I'm crying”; she says: “I'm sorry I put you through this”; and I'm sitting there stroking her head and repeating “Put me through what? Don't be silly; it's okay; hey, shh.” And I'm thinking: doesn't anyone say a nice word to her at work? Apparently they do; it's just the stress and the long, long hours.
An hour later, we cross the street and enter the hospital. There is a Library in the Basement with a broadband connection and laser printers. There is a “cafe” on the first floor that sells Ice Cream and stays open until two in the Morning. Both merit a visit. We spend a half an hour in the Library: Lanie types some doctorly things into a Word file while I read an article about America's impending historic decline and another one about robbers in Indiana who left a store emptyhanded because they couldn't compose a demand note. America's up shit creek, I decide.
On the way upstairs, I move my hips with an exaggerated Swagger.
“What are you doing?” Lanie asks suspiciously.
“It's ghetto walk,” I say and snicker.
She hits me lightly on the Shoulder.
“Yo!” I warn her.
“Quit it! It's stupid.”
“There's no one around,” I protest. “I'm not embarrassing you.”
I ghetto-hobble ahead of her to the Stairs and she kicks me in the Ass.
“Bitch please!” I cry, startled.
Lanie rolls her eyes and pushes me forward, towards ice cream. “You're a moron,” she says.