Tag: romance

Toaster Affair

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She’s been buying a lot of bread lately.
Two, three loaves a week.
Then, this week, ten. And the week’s not over yet.
Know what I think? I think she”s having an affair with the toaster.
Not that I blame her. It”s a really, really nice toaster.
Shiny, too.
It’s got a lifetime warranty, but with all the bread she’s running through the poor thing, she’s burning it up.
I watch her pull out the crumb catcher tray and pour it out in the trash.
The way she puts it back “slowly”
At least it’s not the smoke alarm anymore.

Iris

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Just as some women light up a room, Iris scented up a room with her peculiar aroma.
For some reason, Iris liked to spray herself with water from a handheld mister and then dust herself from head to toe with powdered cinnamon.
She said that she learned this from her mother, although her mother used nutmeg.
Iris preferred cinnamon to nutmeg.
At parties, people would look around for the air freshener or the scented candle.
Iris would smile, knowing they’d eventually figure out it was her.
She’d dip her fingers in their coffee, and they’d sip her up with glee.

Elbow Job

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It’s hard to keep a secret.
Some women, they’re good at giving head, but have you heard about the one who gives great elbow?
Of course not. Nobody ever says “She gives great elbow.” That’s crazy, right?
Well, if you’ve ever gotten great elbow, you wouldn’t think I’m crazy at all.
And even giving great elbow is good.
Know the saying “There’s no such thing as a bad blowjob?”
Well, there’s no such thing as a bad elbowjob or a good elbowjob.
It’s all great.
Here, just tuck in your arm and stick out your elbow.
You’ll see. Trust me.

Flowers For A Stranger

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I don’t know why I was in the cemetery at midnight, wandering around with flowers in my hand.
I don’t know any dead people.
None I’d bring flowers for, anyway.
So, I put the flowers on a headstone, said a quick prayer, and went home.
Next day, I read in the paper that there were two murders at the graveyard.
Two old men shot each other after seeing flowers on the grave. Each suspected the other of having an affair with the woman they agreed never to steal from the other.
Even in death.
Isn’t jealousy and petty rivalry wonderful?

Wrong Number

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She told me her number at a party, but I couldn’t remember the last number.
So, I dialed all of the numbers in the series.
One was a computer or a fax. So was two, five, seven, and eight.
Three and four were not in service.
Six could have been her. It was a generic pager number, so I gave it my number.
Nine was a kid’s personal line.
Zero was a hardware store. She said she was an art dealer, so that couldn’t have been her Must be the pager.
Unless, of course, she’s a robot with a modem.

The Last Time

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The last time I saw her, she was dancing in the middle of the street.
It wasn’t safe there, with all the traffic, but she was enthralled with some tune or poem in her head, and she just raised her arms in the air and turned like she was fending off really slow bees.
A scream pierces the air. But it’s not her, she hasn’t been hit yet.
They’re screaming for her to get out of the street. People on the sidewalks are doing that, too.
Nobody runs out to grab her. The traffic’s too thick. They just keep yelling.

War Is Hell

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You know those letters than the Post Office digs up now and then from a World War 2 soldier writing his wife or girlfriend, but it doesn’t get delivered until fifty years later?
I found one of those under some carpet I was ripping up in the office.
Policy says to go get a supervisor to read it before delivery, so I did.
He steams it open, takes a gander, and smirks.
Blah blah blah… killed some Germans… blah blah blah… screwed a bunch of whores… blah blah blah… stole artwork…
He pulls out a lighter and burns the letter.

The Dusty Siren

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Wearing white lace, just like when we first met.
I chased her into the desert in the heat of the moment.
She sits there, beckoning, just out of reach.
Look again. A ragged sheet, blown across a dead tree stump.
Did I imagine her? Or did she imagine me, begging for one final kiss?
I can’t reach her. Too weak to crawl. Too damn weak to crawl.
Reach for me. Reach out to me and pull me into your embrace, my love.
She sits there, watching.
One final scream, a groan into the wind, and my mouth fills with dust.

Now

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When I visited Karen in the hospital for the last few months, Karen would catch me looking at my watch.
“Am I really so boring to be with?” she’d ask.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “It’s just a habit.”
And I’d take off my watch.
After Karen died, another watch arrived in the mail.
It was Karen’s.
It doesn’t have hands or a battery or anything in it.
Just the word “NOW” written on it.
At first, I found myself looking at it out of habit, but in time, I looked at it to remember.
I haven’t taken it off yet.

Pizza Time

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Okay, so my wife was making pizza the other night, and I got to chop up the veggies.
I like to use the alligator chopper thingy we have. It dices them up real good. And, it’s fun, too!
Then, I dry out the veggies and then get out some mushrooms to blot on paper towels.
My wife doesn’t like mushrooms on pizza, so I put them only on half.
She baked the thing, pulled it out of the oven, and guess which half I ate from?
Yeah, that’s right. The one without mushrooms. Her half.
I’m a bad, bad husband.