She had some bloodshot eyes and a ninety-yard stare. I’d known it would come down to this. The beginning of romance is wonderful. I don’t know why I do it over and over. Starting with a new one, I can just about eat her damn legs off. Then, later, some shit like this. Women. Spend your whole life after the right one and what do they do? Shit on you. I always heard the theory of slapping them around to make them respect you, that that’s what they want. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand to hit that opposite flesh. That slap would ring in my head for the rest of my life. This is what I do: take what they give and give what I can and when it’s over find another one. Another one. That’s what’s so wonderful about the beginning of romance. She’s different. She’s new. Unique. Everything’s fresh. Crappola. You go in there to shave after the first night and what does she do while you’ve got lather all over your face? Comes in and hikes her nightgown and then the honeymoon’s over.

I’m not trying to get away from the story. I mean, just a few minutes later, some stuff actually happened. But sitting in that car at that moment, I was a little bitter. I had all sorts of thoughts going through my head, like: Slapper. Slapper ass off. I held that down.

She looked at me with those bloodshot eyes. “You really somethin, you know that? You really really really.”

I knew it was coming. We’d had a bad afternoon out at the lake. Her old boyfriend had been out there, and he’d tried to put the make on her. I and seven of my friends had ripped his swim trunks off of him, lashed him to the front of her car, and driven him around blindfolded but with his name written on a large piece of beer carton taped to his chest for thirty-seven minutes, in front of domestic couples, moms and dads, family reunions, and church groups. She hadn’t thought it was funny. We, we laughed our asses off.

I got out of the car. She didn’t want to have any fun, that was fine with me. I bent over and gathered up an armload of beer cans and carried them to the trash can. They clattered all over the place when I dropped them in. I was a little woozy but I didn’t think anybody could see it. Through the window of the store this old dyed woman with great big breasts and pink sunglasses looked out at me with a disapproving frown. I waved. Then I went back for more cans.

“Don’t worry about the damn cans, all right?”

“I can’t move my feet for them,” I said.

“I’ll worry about the damn cans,” she said.