Page 42 of Tarek

“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.” My intrusive thoughts are winning.

She crosses her arms over her chest. If I wasn’t driving, I would have stared at her chest but safety first. It’s fun teasing her, watching her cute face huff and pout.

“Sorry, carry on.”

“So, the cyclops comes back, and he is like, ‘Who are you? Are you here on business?’” Storytellers of old could never have been as animated and addictive as Penelope in the moment.

“Ody is like, ‘We are your guests, and if you respect Zeus, give us a gift.’”

Part of me wants to tell her that as an elective in college, I studied Greek Mythology, but I refuse to take away her joy.

“Unfortunately, the cyclops doesn’t respect Zeus. He is also the son of Poseidon. He said, ‘Nah, no gifts.’ He smashed the heads of two of Ody’s men and ate them. The rest scatter to hide.”

“Shit, that is messed up,” I reply.

She doesn’t realize that I am driving slower because I am enjoying her company and her undivided attention.

“That night, the cyclops goes to sleep. When he gets up the next day, he eats more men and goes to see about his flock.”

I just want to see her aggravated again, so I say, “There is a point to this story, yes?”

She stops talking and turns back to her regular sitting position.

“Shit, I’m sorry. No, seriously, I’m enjoying the story. Pen, please,” I plead.

She looks out of the window, and I pull to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” she says as she looks down at the dark street.

“Tell me the story, and I will start driving. I’m really enjoying it.”

Penelope turns her face to the car window.

“I always wonder why women do that? Why do you look at the car window when you’re angry?” My intrusive thoughts get the better of me.

“Because we don’t want to see the face of the person that irritates us.”

“Okay, I get it. I won’t interrupt. I promise, I will give you $500,000 if I do.” I throw my hands up to surrender.

She laughs. “Money can’t buy you happiness.”

“That’s what poor people say. Don’t say that. Continue.”

Sighing, she continues, “Ody and his remaining men formulate a diabolical plan. That night, the cyclops comes home, and Ody charms him by giving him wine he collected from the goatskin bottles from his men.”

I continue to say nothing. All I am doing is enjoying the night, feeling at ease with an intelligent, beautiful woman at my side.

“Now the cyclops is drunk, and in his stupor, he asks Ody his name.” She pauses and looks at me.

“What’s his name?” Why am I intrigued even though I know the story?

“Ody says my name is Nobody. Then the cyclops falls asleep, and the men stab the cyclops in his eye. The cyclops brothers heard his scream and knocked on the stone door.”

We are almost there. I can see the lights of Nowhere in the distance.

“The brothers were like, ‘Bro, you okay? Who hurt you?’ The cyclops says, ‘Nobody hurt me.’ The brothers went away.”

I snicker because I see where this is going.

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