Odds Are

Day Seven: Give and Take–Today’s Prompt: Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else. Today’s twist: write your post in the form of a dialogue.

 

“Do you really think you need another drink?”

“Unlike you, my dear, I am eminently qualified to make that determination.”

“But, we need to talk,” he grumbled, a trifle too vehemently. He slipped off his scruffy loafers, tossing a jacket on the back of the sofa.

“You, David, need to talk,” she replied. “I need peace and quiet and a chocolate martini.” She stirred her drink before taking a long, voluptuous drink. Sitting by the fireplace which remained unlit, despite the chilly rain outside.

“Getting drunk won’t change things,” he said. He began to pace as he felt for a nonexistent pack of smokes.

“If I could actually get drunk on chocolate martinis, I would be the happiest of overweight losers.” That last with a twirl of her stirrer. She relaxed into the leather easy chair, as into a lover’s arms.

“Look, if you’re just going to make jokes, I’ll leave,” he suggested.

She spooned some chocolatey ice cream martini into her mouth, savoring the tiny kick from the vodka, knowing he had more whining to do.

“I’m fed up!”

She sat silent.

“Do you hear me?”

“People blocks away can hear you. Why are you so emotional?” She, too, was fed up, but she let him vent. It would all be over soon.

“You can’t treat me this way! I’ve done everything for you. And you just, you just…” He always stammered when his temper took over.

“Are you a hothouse flower to be sheltered from reality?” she asked, not expecting a reply.

“If you just, if we could just, well, you know…go back to the way we were before, before…” his voice trailing off as it always did now. He searched his jacket for cigarettes he knew weren’t there. He had given them up 3 years ago, for her. Or so he told himself. He poured a few fingers of scotch, working up his courage.

She waited, knowing what was next.

“Please,” he whined. “You know I’m sorry. You forgave me, didn’t you? Why are you treating me like, like…?” he rambled on nearly incoherent as the booze loosened his tongue and his resolve.

“Like what, Dave?”

“Like you hate me, despise me even.” He struggled not to cry.

“Forgiving is not forgetting, is it?” She stated the obvious, keeping resentment out of her voice. “We must be civilized, right, Dave?” That last spoken softly, with perhaps too much calm.

“Yes, sweetheart. Yes, that’s right. Let’s go back to the way…” his eyes took on that faraway, unfocused glimmer as he recalled happier times.

“But, Dave, be reasonable. You can’t seriously think that I’m still the naive woman you betrayed.” She dug the knife a little deeper into his soul, wanting him to feel its poison.

“Yes, oh, uh, no, uh, I mean. Please, honey. Just let me make it up to you.” Now he was bargaining.

“You can’t erase your actions, Dave. And I can’t forget. I think I’ve been more than reasonable, considering.” Logic was always her strong point.

“But, but, honey, I can’t go on like this.”

“Well, then, don’t.” Her words were clipped, as when addressing an incompetent waiter.

Suddenly, he rushed to her chair, mauling her, tentatively, as he tried to assert his rights. She dumped the chocolatey mess all over his neatly cut hair.

“Now you’ve ruined my martini,” she raised her voice slightly before pouring another. Too late, she saw the poker.

©2015 Linda L Labin, PhD

 

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