As they say in Vietnam (if those giddamn Charlie spoke English), the silence is deafening.
You could cut the tension with a butcher knife, and just keep cutting 'til all you see is blood. Er….I mean…
I look across the table at Laura, just a few feet away. She's so kinda beautiful. Her earrings, her make-up, her avoidance of eye contact.
Suddenly she starts bleeding out of her mouth. And screaming too. But the bleeding seems louder. And I smell corn on the cob in the distance. My sense of smell is being bombarded more than my sense of hearing or sight.
I sing "Home…home on the range" but replace it with the words "Corn…corn on the cob."
She continues to panic. Blood is now coming out of her nose. She's begging me to do something.
"Are you sure you're not on your period," I ask calmy, as I look down at a piece of bread I'm buttering.
The butter is ketchup-like.
A waiter comes over and asks us if we need anything. Laura tries to choke out "emergency services and the check, please" but the blood drowns out her cries and all that comes out of her mouth is spit up blood. I tell the waiter I'll take some apple pie for dessert.
"Are you positive you're not on your period?" I ask again. "Women bleed out of their vaginas all the time." I roll my eyes. "Maybe you're just having a ‘mouth period.'"
She shakes her head, or maybe it's just wobbling because she's losing a lot of blood.
She's not looking as beautiful, but maybe I'd still impregnate her mouth after a few beers (or shots of blood).
Suddenly my short term memory comes back to me. I realize what happened. The tension was so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. I had stabbed pretty Laura like the Celtics stabbed the Lakers championship dreams this year; I had stabbed her with the grace of Rondo, the strength of Garnett, and the 3-point skills of Allen.
Women are like steak. Sometimes you need to slice their face.
