Talk Vomit

By Lori D’Angelo

For Halloween, I dressed up as Tom’s ex-girlfriend, handcuffs and all. He did not appreciate the costume. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Louise,” I said. 

He said that’s not what he had in mind when he said do scary. He told me to get out. I took my police uniform and went.  

For Christmas, I suggested that Derek’s dad should carve the turkey even though both his dad’s arms had been amputated in the war. 

“What is wrong with you?” he asked me. 

“Nothing,” I said, “I have both my arms.” 

I already had my/his bag—a monogrammed rolling duffle from L.L. Bean—packed. I took the carving knife and all the knives. They could get creative with forks. 

For Valentine’s Day, I got Jacob the gift I thought every man would want—a woman who was willing to have sex with him on demand. She had a clean bill of health and copy of her latest round of STD tests to prove it. I had her jump out of a cake at the Day’s Inn on Orange Avenue. She was wearing a leotard covered in hearts. 

“Just go,” Jacob said. 

I took his car and left him stranded with the lady of the night. I wondered if he got my money’s worth. 

For Memorial Day, I got Lowell a copy of Leaves of Grass and read him “Oh Captain, My Captain.” His great-uncle had been a Confederate soldier.  The glory of the Old South was all he talked about. His home was draped in Confederate flags. But my ex Lowell, despite his name, was no poet, so I had to explain. It took him a while to be offended. Finally, he was. Then, breathing more freely, I could leave.  I did a mock Rebel Yell as I drove off. 

For Labor Day, I gave Ty a copy of his last bad evaluation before he was fired. He shed tears. That almost never happened. I walked away before he could say more.  For this one, I almost felt bad. And then, unsurprisingly, I was alone. 

On New Year’s Eve, Tom showed up on my doorstep. He was sad and naked in the rain. I knew who he was though I wasn’t sure why he had returned. They never did. Still, he had seen me at my worst. 

“Come in, I guess,” I said, cracking the door. 

And, as we drank the drugstore champagne he had brought, I told him the story of the year.