I’m supposed to call him Hog Beatty, but I don’t like that name any more: I think it messes up his Feng Shui, or something.
He kept talking about Zeke, and I didn’t like that because I don’t want anyone I like to see anyone else I like, unless I’m around to monitor the situation and pretend to control everything.
“I’m totally jealous that you’re spending so much time with Zeke,” I remark.
“Well, I’d like to have lunch with you more often, but you’re hard to reach,” he says.
“I appreciate your efforts,” I reply, “but what are we going to do about this you-and-Zeke thing?”
“You might acccept it,” he suggests. “He and I have known each other a lot longer than I’ve known you.”
I take a sip of my Diet Coke. “No. I still don’t like it. I’m a hermit now, and I think it would be respectful if everyone else could be a hermit, too.”
“He and I are in a band together. We can’t very well help hanging out from time to time.”
“Well, then. One of you will have to quit the group, won’t you?”
“Which way are you jealous? Of him with me, or of me with him?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “But why does any band need two drummers, anyway? Zeke can quit. Or you can quit. Either way—I’m flexible.”
I continued to try to reason with him, but he wouldn’t budge. Men are, you will have noticed, stubborn and irrational creatures.
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