cinco de mayo, part 2

Well, I had just told him I really wanted to be friends.

It was a quiet ride home, that evening in late April, 2001. It was April 15th, if you must know. Have a look if you don't believe me. And awkward. But I'm going to be real, real honest with you: things are forever awkward between a boy and a girl who ought to be making out, but aren't.

And yes, things are forever awkward between a boy and a girl who have been making out when they shouldn't, but I am not talking about those people right now, am I? And we are using the phrase "making out" because my brothers read this, and I feel certain that at least one of them is still slightly grossed out that I got. Pregnant. Three. Times. (Sorry, man.)

I probably had that entire week off from teaching.

Pardon me whilst I endure the nausea brought on by that statement.

Better now, thankyouverymuch.

I don't remember what exactly went on for the next two weeks at all, I was most likely working, and teaching piano lessons, and watching badgood Lifetime movies, and drinking on my balcony with my French roommate. I probably tried to have a phone conversation with The Mister, but he's practically deaf, and I really don't like shouting on the phone, so the chats were likely abbreviated. And to this day we avoid talking on the phone at all costs. And by we, I mean he avoids talking to me on the phone at all costs.

I don't take it personally. I know for a fact that he likes me way better in person. I might totally be winking suggestively right now. Fortunately you can't see me, and don't know if I am a sly winking person or not.

I eventually returned to my little hometown. By this time, my father had R U N N O F T (name that movie, so things were even weirder (more weird? at an advanced level of weirdness?) that I REALLY needed to be at the pub. With The Mister. Naturally. Because I wanted to be with The Mister, I was just a big, fat, lying fraidy-cat.

Now you know the real truth. But I am over that, already, so keep it quiet. I have a reputation to keep up over here.

I was just looking for an excuse to not be involved with The Mister. And much to my chagrin (hear that sound? It's all of the English teachers cheering.) I couldn't actually find any excuse. So I started splitting hairs.

Except I didn't actually need to do anything to split The Mister's hairs. He had done it all by his veryownself. And this is how he did it: NO HAIRCUTS FOR 10 YEARS. AND NO SHAVING.

I am not kidding here, people. The man had unruly hair. And a moustache that the big black devil himself envied. It was long, and pointy, and The Mister had a habit of twirling it between his fingers when he would talk. At least, I think he was talking. There was noise coming from his head, but I couldn't see his mouth moving because HIS MOUSTACHE TRAVELED SOUTH PAST HIS BOTTOM LIP. I can't make this up. It is the honest truth I speak to you. Some of you have even seen him in This Condition.

Anyway, we went to the pub on Cinco de Mayo. And I suggested to him that I was unable to pursue a romantic relationship with him due to the current status of his face, covered with hair as it was. I considered it, and came to the conclusion that should we have a romantic relationship, I would be unable to kiss him because there was no evidence of him having an actual mouth. And one-sided kissing is a drag, you know?

He suggested to me that it was quite possible that he had a mouth, as he recalled brushing his teeth, and also that if I plied him with enough liquor, he would shave it all off.

Damn.