My friend is positioned behind the wheel, sternly staring ahead at one of the cars in the parking lot. I have given up trying to convince her to call the man inside which she dated for about a bit, before he remembered he had to have a personal life that did not include her. Today is personal items returning day. Earlier on she mumbled about the memocard he was returning, and about some “tapes” she had to give back. I look at the plastic shopping bag bundle in the back seat and think about how five dates in coffee shops (as she claims) can not possibly generate t-shirts and toothbrush returns, or the barely contained anger behind the wheel.
Of course, I keep my own counsel, as I did when she first introduced him to us. What possible good would it do to tell her that the 411 on him was that he was kind of hard to rise to the occassion 😉 ? I thought maybe his head like a stubbed thumb, encassed in a Leather Panama Hat?!!!, and his lukewarm shlupping voice would provide all the deterrant she would need. So now, here we are, looking at Boffo’s car and waiting for it to open, so that his majesty, Boffo of Stubbed Thumb Clan can step out and take his precious t-shirts back.
Instead, we see his car pull out of the parking lot and pass right in front of us. I have been begging my friend to call him and tell him we are here, but she refuses because he IM-d her so she is doing the same. And of course, his time is very precious, so after a two minute wait, he decides to leave, despite her furious honking. I have no time to breathe, when she pulls out right behind him , and a Bond Sequence follows. I fervently thank God for not unbuckling as I normally do when parked, and try to awoid getting my chest squished by the horrible seatbelt. Whoever designed those things was either gay, or had a personal vendetta against buxomy women. Or worse, took the bondage game a little too seriously. Either way, i internally pray, and externally beg my friend to give in and call that miserable cloud so the “exchange” can take place and put herself out of misery.
She finally does, and the showdown takes place in another parking lot. Ducking for cover, I let them sort it out, not finding a reason for all the drama. I mean rule number #1 is not to let the enemy see how riled up one is from their actions. And Albos get absolutely freaky when they are ignored, no matter how much they bragged to their friends about the hearbreaks they leave behind or how many panama leather hats they don. But this friend of mine never goes for subtle. She does her thing, then storms back, fully stomping in her 6 inch platforms and intimidating at 5’1″ (including them).
We proceed in different directions, Boffo in his last century Mercedes (what else?) and us in the mamouth Dodge Caravan. I must say it is much more impressionable storming away in a Caravan, complete with flinginf doors, skidmark noises and angry horn. While we talk and I calm her down, I think of my own much less impressive breakups, and the way I never had a full out drama display in a parking lot. I wonder what it would be like to just once show to the other party how a broken heart (or ego) looks like, and what misery idiocy and selfishness can inflict on even the strongest woman. I parade the faces in my head, but somehow even in my imagination, I can not honestly find one important enough to show how deep a hurt they gave me. Probabbly like barely there papercuts between fingers that look healed, until they start aching at the strangest moments.
My friend smiles. Her ego mends in front of my eyes, by the cute IMs of an unimportant hunk, who always remembers to buy her coffee and teddy bears without ever asking for anything more than a smile from her. I also think of my overflowing voice mail, and conclude that as satisfying as a good scene in public can be, listening to another admirer’s voice can be just as healing. If only my friend’s Boffo knew.