I ran into him again. You know, the control freak who unfortunately has no control over himself and who always ends up saying patronizing and rude things, talking down to me like I’m one of his students. The alcoholic who, after I made up with him–and made out with him–messily started insisting he wanted to test me for autism because he’s sure that’s what’s wrong with me!
Well, there he was at Marie’s Crisis piano bar the other night, singing an off-key tune with every word. He slinked up to me with a sheepish grin and started an uncomfortable conversation that went like so:
He: “I shouldn’t say anything.”
Me: “No, you shouldn’t. Ever again. To anyone. Especially when you’re drunk.”
He: “I always get in trouble when I talk to you.”
Me: “Yeah, because you say stupid shit.”
He: “I was joking. I don’t think you’re really autistic!”
Me: “Oh, thanks! That’s really big of you!”
He: “Anyway, my birthday is in September. What are you going to get me?”
I gave him the finger.