them master. I just started doing it because I thought it was funny.
11
Felicia
Five of my previous boy-toys had gone missing in a week. In my defense, I’d started to suspect foul play after the second.
“Quite a few disappearances in this city recently,” I said to Greg, as we sat at the table, eating the microwaved dinners that I’d over-microwaved.
“What are you trying to say?” asked Greg.
“Just making conversation.”
“If you’re accusing me of wrongdoing, why not come out and say it?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I insisted. “But you’ve been spending a lot of time with your brother, who you only barely tolerate, and every night this week you’ve come home with blood behind your ears.”
“Why are you looking behind my ears?” Greg asked. “Can’t a man have privacy in a single crevice? Maybe I should ask what’s behind your ears, hmmm?”
I showed him that there was nothing behind my ears.
“All right, well, fair enough, it was just speculation,” said Greg. “It wasn’t an accusation, unlike what you’ve done with me.”
“I specifically said that I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”
“And yet you wanted to know why there was blood behind my ears. If that’s not an accusation, I don’t know what is.” Greg frowned for an instant, as if momentarily doubting his understanding of the word accusation, but he quickly returned to his look of indignation.
“I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t question the presence of blood on my husband,” I said.
“What if I’d been hurt? What if I had nasty gashes behind my ears? How come you didn’t express concern for my health?”
“I did,” I insisted. “I asked you about it every night this week. You told me not to worry, that it wasn’t your blood.”
That had seemed like a sufficient explanation each time, even though on Tuesday and Thursday there’d been so much blood that it was dripping onto his shirt. I couldn’t see an actual wound, so it seemed completely feasible that he was telling the truth about it not being his blood.
But that left me with an extremely important question: whose blood was it?
Was there a connection between Greg coming home with blood on him, and some of my former lovers going missing? He had a pretty good reason to dislike them. If our roles were reversed, I’d be upset with the women he was banging.
If he were on some sort of killing spree where he wiped out my former lovers one by one, the final body count would be astounding. I’m not an attractive woman, and my best years are far behind me, so it could take a lot of effort to rebuild my boy-toy empire…but frankly I was less worried about that than the tragic loss of human life.
I really should have confronted Greg about this sooner.
“Are you killing people?” I asked.
“Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I want to know if you’re killing people.”
Greg pushed aside his plastic tray of turkey and mashed potatoes. “That question is disrespectful.”
“Why?”
“It just is. Do I go around asking if you’re killing people? Do I?”
“The difference, Greg, is that I haven’t given you any reason to suspect that I’ve committed murder. There’s not a drop of blood on me. We can’t say the same about you.”
“Why do you immediately associate blood with murder? Maybe somebody accidentally bled on me. What about that?”
“Did somebody accidentally bleed on you?”
“Well, no, but you could have started there instead of going straight to me being a murderer!”
“You never answered my question,” I said.
“Are you fucking other men?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Has your vagina admitted bonus penises?”
I glared at him. “You’ve known that I was screwing around for years. The only way I could be less discrete is if I 69’ed one of them at the foot of our bed while you were watching TV.”
“More like you 699’ed
11
Felicia
Five of my previous boy-toys had gone missing in a week. In my defense, I’d started to suspect foul play after the second.
“Quite a few disappearances in this city recently,” I said to Greg, as we sat at the table, eating the microwaved dinners that I’d over-microwaved.
“What are you trying to say?” asked Greg.
“Just making conversation.”
“If you’re accusing me of wrongdoing, why not come out and say it?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I insisted. “But you’ve been spending a lot of time with your brother, who you only barely tolerate, and every night this week you’ve come home with blood behind your ears.”
“Why are you looking behind my ears?” Greg asked. “Can’t a man have privacy in a single crevice? Maybe I should ask what’s behind your ears, hmmm?”
I showed him that there was nothing behind my ears.
“All right, well, fair enough, it was just speculation,” said Greg. “It wasn’t an accusation, unlike what you’ve done with me.”
“I specifically said that I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”
“And yet you wanted to know why there was blood behind my ears. If that’s not an accusation, I don’t know what is.” Greg frowned for an instant, as if momentarily doubting his understanding of the word accusation, but he quickly returned to his look of indignation.
“I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t question the presence of blood on my husband,” I said.
“What if I’d been hurt? What if I had nasty gashes behind my ears? How come you didn’t express concern for my health?”
“I did,” I insisted. “I asked you about it every night this week. You told me not to worry, that it wasn’t your blood.”
That had seemed like a sufficient explanation each time, even though on Tuesday and Thursday there’d been so much blood that it was dripping onto his shirt. I couldn’t see an actual wound, so it seemed completely feasible that he was telling the truth about it not being his blood.
But that left me with an extremely important question: whose blood was it?
Was there a connection between Greg coming home with blood on him, and some of my former lovers going missing? He had a pretty good reason to dislike them. If our roles were reversed, I’d be upset with the women he was banging.
If he were on some sort of killing spree where he wiped out my former lovers one by one, the final body count would be astounding. I’m not an attractive woman, and my best years are far behind me, so it could take a lot of effort to rebuild my boy-toy empire…but frankly I was less worried about that than the tragic loss of human life.
I really should have confronted Greg about this sooner.
“Are you killing people?” I asked.
“Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I want to know if you’re killing people.”
Greg pushed aside his plastic tray of turkey and mashed potatoes. “That question is disrespectful.”
“Why?”
“It just is. Do I go around asking if you’re killing people? Do I?”
“The difference, Greg, is that I haven’t given you any reason to suspect that I’ve committed murder. There’s not a drop of blood on me. We can’t say the same about you.”
“Why do you immediately associate blood with murder? Maybe somebody accidentally bled on me. What about that?”
“Did somebody accidentally bleed on you?”
“Well, no, but you could have started there instead of going straight to me being a murderer!”
“You never answered my question,” I said.
“Are you fucking other men?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Has your vagina admitted bonus penises?”
I glared at him. “You’ve known that I was screwing around for years. The only way I could be less discrete is if I 69’ed one of them at the foot of our bed while you were watching TV.”
“More like you 699’ed
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