Page 73 of Lovebug
Bert turns on the TV and starts spreading our takeout containers on the thin floral carpet. I settle next to him on the floor and take the lids off the food I don’t really like but will eat nonetheless…. for him. I hear the opening song to a show I don’t really enjoy—with the exception of the great Ice-T, of course—but I will watch anyway… for him. For a moment, I’m actually grateful for this bit of predictable normalcy. For a moment, I find it comforting.
But then I start thinking of all the aspects of our life together that I tolerate… for him.
And I realize I can’t do it for another minute more.
As our second episode wraps up, Bert starts to clean up our containers and places our leftovers in the mini-fridge. And then I hear it: the final dunh-dunh. The famous producer’s name we all know—and sort of love—flashes on the screen. And I know exactly what’s coming next.
“Are you ready for my Dick Wolf?” Bert says as he stands and moves toward the bed.
This is the part where I say a classic Ice-T line to heighten the mood. Something like “Do Twinkies last forever?” or “Were you planning on getting frisky with the Hamburglar?” or my personal favorite, “It’s all fun and games until someone loses a penis.” Okay, in fairness, that last one is a Captain Cragen line, but it’s too good not to bring out on a Monday from time to time.
But on this particular Monday night… I can’t make myself say a thing.
I’m learning that I’m the kind of person who can make the best out of something for a long time. I can tolerate something less-than-ideal for a long time. I can make excuses for someone for a long time. Areallylong time, in fact. Like… six years, eight months, and twenty-one days long. But then, I inevitably reach a point of no return where I shut off to the person or situation. I’m just no longer available to them, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I was like that with Brianna Bentz in second grade when she pulled my braids one too many times. I was like that with Dominic Vasquez in fifth grade when he wrote “Mabel is a dork” on my desk every day for a month, and I was like that in grad school the twentieth time Professor Nelson told me that I was “an exceptionally smart scientist… for a woman.”
People are always shocked when I turn that corner. When I’m finally done dealing with their unsavory behavior. It takes me a while. But I get there.
And now, I too am shocked to discover that I’ve reached that point with Bert.
But—of course—this is still me we’re talking about. I’m still Mabel, “the girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the girl who would do anything to avoid making someone I care about feel anything less than loved and adored.
“Did you hear me?” Bert asks. “I said…” He drops back into his ‘seductive voice’—at least I assume seduction has been his intention all these years—and repeats, “Are you ready for my Dick Wolf?”
“Oh, um. Sort of?”
“Sort of?” He looks more confused than I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m sorry. I mean, yes. Yes, of course. The, uh—‘the smell of pimple cream turns my stomach.’”
“What?” His face continues to twist. “Did Ice-T say that?”
“He did,” I say matter-of-factly. “Season three, episode sixteen. But yeah, perhaps not the best line to quote at this moment.”
Come on, Mabel, have a grown-up discussion with this man. You can do it.
“Could we, uh—I feel like we should maybe—”
But before I can get thethoughtout, his proverbial Dick Wolf is out. And… our usual series of events starts to unfold in the same way I described it to my friends on Saturday night.
He tugs on it.
I tug on it.
He jerks it.
I jerk it.
I blow it.
He blowsonit.
And for the first time, as I watch him blow on it, preparing myself for the cupping portion of the proceedings, I realize how truly absurd this is.
There has to be more than this, right? There has to be.
I find that I can’t participate another second, and I’m racking my brain for a way out of this without hurting him.
