I hate my life and I want to die

So I should not have been surprised at the call. I let the machine get it. Freaks call me.

"I know you're home, and I know that cheap-ass machine only got like five minutes of record time, and if you think I don't have five minutes worth of shit to say, you got another think coming. . ."

I picked up. This was a mistake. I tried to say hello, but she cut me off.

"What are you doing now? Doesn't matter. We're going to Victoria's Secret."

I weighed my options.

"¿Que? No hablo ingles."

"Baka."

"I don't speak Japanese."

"I don't speak Spanish," she lied. "C'mon, we're burning daylight."

I weighed my options, and realized I had none. "When should I pick you up?"

"Not a problem. I'm on your back porch."

I hung up the phone and walked to the kitchen. She gave what could be described as a jaunty wave through the window.

Praying I'd locked the screen door for once, I opened the back door. No such luck. She walked in.

"Hey. You got any beer? Real beer, not that Goose Island shit you like so much?"

Anyone else, I would have asked if it wasn't a little early for that. In her case, I'm surprised she didn't go straight for the hard liquor. "Check the fridge. How did you know I was home?"

"I saw your car. Why you always park so far? Come back and get me."

". . ." I walked out the door and held the screen open. She just looked at me.

"What, you expect me to wait outside? It's hot. Drive around some to let the AC kick in."

Once the car was cool enough for her highness, we set off. She flipped through the cds in the glove compartment with an expression of open disgust.

"And why are we going to Victoria's Secret?"

"You the one told me to get a sports bra."

". . . I don't think they sell sports br--"

"You ever look? Or were you too busy playing with the frilly things? You sick fuck."

". . ."

"Or looking at the posters. Those women are airbrushed all to hell, you know. Real women have hair down th--"

"Find anything you wanted to listen to?" I tried. Vainly.

"Hell no. I didn't even know Lisa Germano had this many cds out. Why you want to listen to whiny women, anyway?"

". . . Couldn't you have gone with somebody else? Stacey?"

Another look of disgust. She has a range of them. "No, she'd drag me up in Lane Giant."

". . . Bryant."

"No," she sighed, "unlike some people, Brian has a job, and a life, and can't just drive off to Mall of America at the drop of a hat."

I turned on the radio.

At the mall, I looked at the map to try to figure out how to get to the place. She said, "Ok, Hot Topic. Let's go."

". . ."

"It's on the way," she insisted.

I looked at the map again. "I don't see the dimensional portal you're talking about."

"Ok, maybe you want to hang out here checking out the ghetto hoochie mama jailbait, but some of us have other stuff to do. C'mon, we're burning daylight."

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

"You started."

I tried reason. "You wanted to go to Chicago. Then when we got there, you didn't want to get up before noon."

"I was tired after the drive."

"I drove."

"And I wanted to swing by the Sanrio store too, while we're here."

". . . You couldn't have taken the bus?"

She gave me a cold look. "It's freaks on the bus."

I let it slide. Sometimes it's easier to just let it slide.

Later, outside Hot Topic, she wore a grin which could accurately be described as "shit-eating." Hating myself, I asked why.

"The cashier was hitting on you."

This was a change from her normal technique, which is accusing me of looking at other women when we're out. I asked why this was a problem, seeing as we're not dating, and she said it made her look bad.

I hang out with her for the material. I keep telling myself that.

"She was like 13. And no, she wasn't."

"Like you ain't notice how she leaned over the counter."

"There wasn't much there to notice. Except the freckles."

"You were checking her out? She was like 13, you sick fuck. And why you looking at other women when you're with me?"

"I hate you. I've mentioned this before, right?"

"And the way she practically massaged your hand when she gave you the change. What was up with that?"

"Which reminds me," I said, "how did you manage to `forget your purse' when it was your idea to come here in the first place?"

"Damn, I said I'd pay you back."

"You say that often. It happens less often."