Oh, Gentle Reader, I don’t feel at all well. Valentine’s day is coming up, and it tends to have that effect on me.
The only good Valentine’s Day I’ve had is this: Ex-husband and I were at a bookstore, and I kept being hassled by this bar boor on my cell phone – he’d been harassing Ex-husband and I for months, until I gave him my number in a moment of weakness. After the third call or so, Ex-husband grabbed my phone and gave him what for, then suggested we go out.
This was the thirteenth, mind. We went to one of those sushi places where the food travels on a conveyor past you, and each selection is priced by the color of the trim on the china. I’d never been very keen on sushi, but I’m always game for something new, and he convinced me that I hadn’t had decent sushi before. He was right. We had a marvelous time; I tried whatever he suggested, until eventually I threw caution to the wind, and started selecting my own dishes. I just had to try something called a spider roll, with the entire carapace of a crawfish on it.
Dinner over, we went to the Mix. Ex-husband played pool, I played the socialite – a usual night for us, at the time. I wanted to leave, but he had another game lined up. I, therefore, drank more than was healthy. I was quite prepared to be very ill. Did I mention I hadn’t been feeling well, earlier? I wasn’t feeling well, earlier.
We went home – he wasn’t too happy, but not too unhappy either. As I was sitting at the foot of the bed, huddled over a kitchen pot, Ex-husband rubbed my back, and yelled at me for trying raw fish when I’d already been sick. Still. Eventually, of course, I vomited. What should appear in the mess? The entire, whole, undigested and apparently unchewed crawfish carapace, staring at me, from a puddle of regret. He cleaned it up, and crawled back in bed, and it was the best Valentine ever.