Him and Her: A Love Story Over Three Seasons
Puce Is Just a Name for Expensive Purple
I was sitting in the book store looking fabulous, when a nervous voice dared to interrupt me. “Uh, excuse me?”
Noting the expensive shoes from Milan speaking to me, I looked up from my copy of Elle’s Summer Fashion Extravaganza.
The shoes were the best part of what I found standing in front of me. I was assaulted by a smile of unbleached teeth: “Would you like to go to dinner sometime?”
Annoyed, I turned back to my magazine. “No, I’m busy. I have to go buy light bulbs.” Short hair was the season’s must-have accessory; I’d have to get a haircut.
“I’ll buy them for you, how many watts do you need?” he persisted irritatingly.
“Sixty. Then wrap them up. I only go out with men who give me presents.”
There was a long pause, which caused me to glance up, confused.
“Done!” he declared, satisfied.
“Oh, and I only eat at Chéz Edward.”
“Ah… that’s a really expensive place isn’t it?”
“No, the most expensive.”
Back to my magazine, I noticed florals were being featured in skirts and blouses. The shoes didn’t leave. “Can I help you?” I inquired.
“No…well…um…OK…see you tonight,” the shoes stuttered. “Oh, and thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I granted.
That night he presented me with a bouquet of light bulbs. We went to Chéz Edward and he admired me by candlelight. I ordered Champagne and lobster but ate only the side salad. As expected, he called the next day professing his love.
If Someone Offers You Creative Insanity, Just Say No. There Should Be a PSA.
“We never travel anywhere, let’s go on a vacation!” he declared excitedly while standing at the foot of the sofa where I was studying my Fall Fashion Preview edition of Vogue.
“You mean you don’t travel. I go on vacation for two weeks every year,” I corrected him. The experts were forecasting orange as the new black this season.
Confused, he inquired, “Do you mean to the mental ward at St. Jude’s Hospital?”
“Of course, where else? It’s the all-inclusive for the insane. I send you postcards every year.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go to a romantic island in the Caribbean?” he ventured.
“Nope. I would be forced to sit and look at you for two entire weeks.” The editorial on wool capes was lit beautifully.
“I love looking at you, especially in the moonlight.” he gushed.
I looked up. “That’s understandable, all my lovers have. By moonlight I am ethereally beautiful and my eyes are even more divinely blue.”
“But an island would be so delightful; every night we could see a play or a musical.” His enthusiasm was desperate.
“I prefer the entertainment of the hallucinating homeless they bring into the ward. They are hilarious, and they sing.”
Unfortunately, that February the ward was full, so we packed our bags and went to St. Lucia. The hotel was luxurious, the water was clear and warm, and the sun shone brilliantly. Every evening we saw plays about musicals. He was thrilled, I was bored, and everybody mistook us for newlyweds.
My Rent Money Is Better Spent on Shoes
“Will you marry me?” he asked, irritatingly and earnestly, while standing in front of the TV.
Grudgingly, I looked up from my Neiman Marcus Spring Catalog and squinted at him from head to toe. “Nah. Our children would be short and bald.”
“What can I do about that? It’s hereditary,” he protested.
“Nooo, it’s a simple matter of laziness. If you had properly applied yourself you’d be taller. Do you even know how to motivate children to grow?”
He looked bewildered.
“I didn’t think so.”
I examined his pink, sweaty scalp, “Your baldness is definitely not hereditary. If I were your hair follicles I would have committed suicide and fallen out, too.” I turned back to the catalog; the blue heels on page 54 were obviously uncomfortable and imperative to own.
“The children would also be insane,” he countered. “That would be your fault.”
Annoyed, I looked up again, “No, now that is a perfect example of genetics, there is nothing I can do about that.”
“But I love you,” he pleaded.
“And I love me, everybody loves me, I’m a people person.”
“Why are you still with me if you don’t love me?” he sobbed.
“I can’t afford a car.”
Nevertheless, he offered me an enormous diamond, the size of which any girl would be stupid to turn down, I accepted his proposal, and we were married for fifty years. Our children were short, bald, insane but industrious. They all joined cults and we were proud of their accomplishments.
Andie Bregman was born and raised in Wisconsin, and started writing creatively in high school. Her love of travel brought her to Israel for the first time in 2004, and since 2005 she has been living in Givatayim. She is currently pursuing a B.A. in English Literature at Bar Ilan University. This is her first publication in a literary journal.