Into the Fryer

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Into the Fryer

There’s nothing more annoying than trying to break up with someone who just won’t take “No, no, and no,” for an answer. OK, I know I’m cute, funny, and smart, but that doesn’t make me some sort of limited natural resource in a big city like Chicago. Apparently, no one has told Rose  that. Ever since I wouldn’t have a “drink” at her place last week, she has been burning up my phone with text messages.

5:00 a.m:  R U up?  IJWTS Hugz

Noon:  WRUDoin? Mssn U.  U 2?

5:00 p.m: R U off?  WTG4a\\%/  (I had to look that one up.  It means want to go for a drink.)

My answers, in sequence were: “I am now,” “No,” and, “No.”  But, in spite of my short, snappy replies:

Midnight: GNSTDLTBBB (Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite). 

Dang, I need a New Speak Dictionary app on my iPhone just to translate the meaningless into the blasé.

No one was more bewildered by Rose’s behavior than members of her entourage. They had never seen their beloved diva chase after anyone before. Since their primary function was to fend off the unwanted, I was putting them out of a job. One or more would call me just about every day (they move in a pack, so it was usually a conference call). I’d try to let the calls go to voice mail, but since they probably had seven different phone numbers between them, it was hard to keep track. On the phone they’d say something like, “Sissy, mira Chica, Rose is missin’ you and stuff. You should call her, you know.” 

By Thursday, I'd had enough, so after my five p.m. text from Rose, I gave her a call to tell her in clear, non-text speech, “I do not want to date you anymore.” However, before I got past “Hello,” she beat me to the punch.

“Look Sissy, I get the feeling that you don’t want to date me anymore.” I agreed, and she said. “OK no problem.  Listen, I have something of yours that you left here at my place. Why don’t you come by on your way home to pick it up.

Rose sounded calm, matter-of-fact, and even cheerful, so I agreed to stop by after work. I wasn’t even the tiniest bit suspicious when she came to the door in a silky bathrobe. I said, “so what exactly did I leave over here?” Then, she lets the bathrobe fall to the floor, and, well….

I am definitely not the type of woman who falls for those James Bondesque femme fatale seduction routines. And that is exactly what I told Rose the next morning, as we were eating breakfast in bed together. You may imagine it was the sex that got me, but I think it was the food.... I hate to cook, so I have a weakness for women who cook well. And let me tell you, Rose can really burn some pots. I mean that in the best possible sense.

You know, I’m thinking that maybe I hadn’t been fair to Rose last week, by dropping her like that. Perhaps our little misunderstanding was just a failure to communicate. Or, is that the cheesy grits talking?