Lunch with Susan (standard:drama, 2573 words)
Author: Theo Carlson	Added: Jan 10 2001	Views/Reads: 3543/2295	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sometimes the end of a relationship can make a man a little crazy…but what if he was insane to begin with?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"...were such a dear, I was having such a difficult time, and... 

CHRIST. 

The funny part was that I had come prepared to end it in my own way
after lunch. I expected to have a final meal followed by a final 
excursion to my apartment around the corner; so rejection was not truly 
the issue. She was taking pleasure in my disappointment. That she could 
enjoy my rage -- when Tormentor was the role I usually played -- was 
offensive and doubled my outrage. Discovering that not only this lunch, 
but our entire time together had been meticulously planned was more 
than my arrogant mind could endure. 

Martin, the bus boy, waiter, Mater D’ and chef, who demanded his name be
pronounces as if it had two "e's", was as cheerful as a man who knew he 
would live forever. He poured me coffee and made polite, if inane, 
conversation. He welcomed us back and asked how we’d been. He noted 
that Sunday was not our usual day and asked if we had any special 
plans. 

"You wouldn’t believe me if I told you," I sniffed, more rudely than I’d
intended. 

He had the good sense to end the conversation there and ask for our
orders. I told him the coffee would be plenty. This response earned me 
a look that suggested he felt that people who wanted "Just Coffee" 
should stay home and make it themselves, particularly on a Sunday 
afternoon and especially if they didn’t want to be chatty with the bus 
boy, waiter, Mater D’ and chef. Martin, (Marteen, the voice in my head 
corrected) was right though; Sunday was not one of our regular days. 
The invitation to Sunday coffee had alerted me to Susan’s plans, or 
rather what I thought her plans were. We usually met here for lunch 
during the week. Lunch and meaningless banter about the day to day 
excitements since our last rendezvous followed by torrid, almost 
spiteful sex in my apartment. Then, excepting occasional weekend 
marathons of depravity, we went to our separate corners. Sunday coffee 
was never on the program. 

Susan had apparently said something that required a response and was
sitting patiently waiting for one. Her body language was sympathetic 
but her eyes dared me to cause a scene. I have never been one to 
disappoint so I gave her one. I caused a scene of cataclysmic 
proportions. 

"The thing is, Susan," I said, "I had special plans for us for today. I
have a surprise and a half for you at my place, a whole day of fun and 
merriment to celebrate our break-up. I refuse to let you force me to 
celebrate alone." 

Susan rose slowly, a bored CEO at an unproductive meeting. She intended
to leave without another word. Public scenes were beneath her. She 
looked down her nose at me as if to say ‘My business here is concluded’ 
and told me she had expected a more mature response. I followed her to 
the door, grabbed her arm just above her elbow and turned her to face 
me. I placed myself between her and the door and spoke. My voice was a 
low monotone. I chose each word carefully and enunciated as one would 
to a child or foreigner. 

"This is not how it ends," I threatened. "I have very specific ways of
ending a relationship and the formula is explicit: it does not end with 
the woman storming out of the diner. I’ll show it to you sometime." 

My rage must have shown briefly in my eyes. The look frightened her, I
could tell. "Now," in the barely calm voice of a parent at the end of 
his rope I no more than whispered, "please sit down." 

Martin was approaching. I knew then that this would end badly for all
involved and I was ready. The anger at the ending drove my rage to a 
fever pitch. Years of work, thought, and consequence free living were 
about to be ended by some half-assed Don Quixote with ten times more 
testosterone then brains. It would have been amusing if it was 
happening to someone else. The knight galloping to the rescue of the 
fair damsel had no idea what he was in for. 

He placed himself between Susan and I. That was when the scene truly
started. There was shoving and posturing, threats were made and then it 
was over. Reason, or at least my reason, had prevailed. Once Marteen 
understood my position, once my singular purpose had been revealed, he 
left us quietly with a mildly surprised and quizzical look on his face. 


I noticed that the old men had observed my outburst and addressed them:
"Sorry for the commotion gentlemen," I smiled amiably, "Please, 
continue to enjoy your Post and your ‘Just Coffee’. You won’t hear 
another word from me. I do ask, however, that you give the lady here 
and I the courtesy of not staring. I will conduct myself properly and 
will not disturb you further; please do the same." 

The codgers bent their noses back to their papers as I gently escorted
Susan back to our booth. I caught the occasional wary glance in my 
direction but it is to be expected from old men with nothing to do but 
gossip. At least they stopped reading aloud from the paper. I supposed 
they’d finished and would sit here now until tomorrow's paper arrived 
so that they could continue with their insightful commentary. 

Susan looked terribly uncomfortable. She was perspiring lightly and a
small bead of sweat glided down the side or her face in front of her 
ear, over her sharp jaw line and down her neck. Her eyes were red and 
swollen, she had been crying silently while I spoke with the cronies. 
She dabbed the corner of her eyes with a paper napkin. 

"Careful what you wish for hon." I smiled as I resumed my seat. 

"So, enough about me, lets talk about you." I had a solid plan in my
head now and the execution was charmingly simple. "I’ve a few questions 
about you, hubby and life in general. It’s like ‘To tell the Truth’ - 
will the real soulless being please stand up? You won the last round so 
you get to pick our first category." 

"Don’t do this," Susan pleaded, she was having trouble getting her
crying under control. Any more shocks and she would loose it 
completely. 

"Oh, Darlin’, you have no idea how serious I am. This is not a game to
me. This is the conclusion of my life’s work and you’re the lucky girl 
that gets to share it with me." 

"But Martin..." 

"Don’t worry Dear, I’ve assured our privacy. Besides, Martin doesn’t
care what we discuss anymore, and we’ve ordered all we’re going to 
order today.  So,” I switched my voice into Richard Dawson mode. “Tell 
me about. . . Hubby!” “ Did he fail to measure up? If so how? Or is 
this a personal thing with you, a vendetta of some kind against him or 
men or me?" 

Susan was openly sobbing now, practically screaming. Gently, I pushed
her hair out of her face and stroked her feverish cheek with the back 
of my hand. I tried to calm her down: 

"It’s over Hon, I know it. But it is important to me that I have an
understanding of the only woman that saw through me. The only person 
that chose me because of what I really was and not because of what I 
told them I was." 

She began to regain some control. She closed her eyes, tipped her head
forward as if napping and breathed deeply. She pressed the balls of her 
hands to her eyes and slid them slowly down her face. They came to a 
rest just below her chin, her fingers pressed together as if in prayer 
with her index finger poised at the base of her nose. 

She sat that way for two full minutes. The diner had become a crypt by
an interstate. The tumult outside seeped through the thick pane of 
glass with the coherency of a lunatic with a sock in his mouth. This, 
combined with the persistent ringing, buzzing, throbbing, chaos behind 
my eyes, made those the longest two minutes anyone should ever be 
forced to withstand. Susan shattered the silence with her quiet tones. 
Her words were barely audible but the eye-of-the-hurricane stillness 
amplified the disturbance. 

"I just wanted a little adventure," she sounded dazed and seemed to
speak mainly to herself. "I knew that David, that’s his name you know, 
David, not only trusted me but would forgive me if I was caught. I 
planned to have just a short fling, to see what it was like to be a 
predator, to show myself that I could be dangerous and bitchy and mean. 


When we started out you seemed like such an..." Susan looked at me,
mildly startled as if she’d just remembered where she was and what she 
was doing. She decided to choose her next words more carefully. "You 
seemed like the type of guy who might like a girl like that." 

"I seemed like an arrogant prick in need of being taken down a notch or
two. It’s O.K. you’re right. Except, obviously, about being the 
predator." I looked directly into her guilty soul through her little 
girl eyes and paused for effect. "I do like tramps. I do take advantage 
of lonely women who need to boost their self-esteem. Except for the 
twist at the end when you decided to break it off with me this is one 
of my standard issue relationships. Including this little game of ‘To 
Tell the Truth.’" 

The pay phone had been ringing incessantly, I suggested to one of the
ancients that they should answer it. The old man shuffled to the 
shrilly shrieking phone and answered. He spoke quietly, shaking his 
head, yes, no, yes, yes, then came toward my table. He approached with 
timidity usually reserved for naughty little boys approaching Santa in 
the mall. 

"It’s for you," he croaked. 

"Who ever it is," I said, "I don’t choose to speak with them at this
time. Go hang up the phone." 

He addled back to the phone, ala Tim Conway, and relayed my message. 

The old man came back without cradling the phone and told me that it was
the police and they demanded I speak to them. He was sweating and in 
tears. This afternoon had been too much for him. He pleaded with me to 
take the phone call. He said that the police were here to help. 

I rose and stood close by the old man, as if to embrace him.  He smelled
of Ben Gay and nicotine.  When I lifted my knife up under his ribs, the 
same look of surprise came over his face that came over Martin’s when I 
shot him for interloping that was not needed, wanted, or appropriate. 

This, as I had supposed, was more than Susan could bear. She was
sputtering and sobbing and swearing. She said that I was a cold 
hearted, psychopathic, maniac. I slapped her lightly to bring her out 
of her hysterics. She picked up her tea/shield again and told me that 
she hoped I rotted in Hell. 

I’d thought she would be more charitable in the last minutes of our
lives. 

I decided to tell her as much. 


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