Gotta Write

     I couldn’t compose myself so I said, “I don’t like this dress.  It’s too damn shiny.  Everyone was looking at me and I didn’t know any of that music.  I can’t do this!”  The last part of my mini-speech was muffled because I had my head buried in Tim’s chest.  He was hugging me tight and smoothing my hair.

     “Let’s go home then, Baby,” he said, then started leading me to the car.

     “Please drive,” I said, shuffling through my purse for the car keys.

     “I can’t drive,” he replied.

     “Please,” I repeated.  I was too much of a mess to get behind the wheel.

     “Michelle,” he said, stopping me and looking me in the eyes.  “I just dropped back there.  I can’t drive.”

     “Dropped what?” I asked, and then immediately realized that he was talking about acid.  “Tim!” I yelled, but he shushed me in response.  I lowered my voice to a whisper and said, “You’re a nurse! You should know better than to do that sort of stuff!”

     He let out a giggle and replied, “Or maybe I know what the best stuff is.”  When he realized that I wasn’t amused he started urging me to the car.  “Let’s get out of here before your face starts melting.” 

     Tim spent the entire drive home alternating between staring at the traffic and staring at my dress. Every time he looked at my dress he made a humming sound, but when I glared at him he would go back to looking at the traffic and change from humming to making clicking sounds with his tongue.  When we pulled into the driveway he looked at me – but didn’t really seem to look at me – and he said in a whispery voice, “Don’t worry, Dearest.  I have the ‘Department of Make Things Better’ working on it.”  Then he stared at his hand and started humming and clicking again.  I didn’t have any experience dealing with a person on acid, so I left him in the car and went inside.

     This was a weird night, indeed.

     I don’t know if he stayed in the car all night or if he wandered off to enjoy the remainder of the evening in his drugged haze, but when I woke up the next morning he wasn’t in the bed.  I showered and got ready for work, but just as I was about to leave he walked in looking disheveled.

     “I haven’t slept all night.  I’ve been composing techno in my head.  Do you want to hear it? Put your ear to my ear and maybe you can hear it too.”  He started dancing but then something on the wall caught his eye so he stopped to stare at it.

     “I don’t have time for this,” I said, but I wasn’t getting his attention so I spoke louder.  “Tim! What do I have to do to help you get out of this thing?”

     “Thing?” he asked, then glided up to me.  “It’s more than a thing.  This is bona fide.”

     “Bona fide what?” I asked.

     “That’s just it, Michelle.  Bona fide.”  He crossed his arms and waited for my reaction, as though he had just said something incredibly profound. When I didn’t answer him he said it again, only this time he sang it in a high voice.

     I had to get to work, so I faked comprehension.  “Oh, oh, it’s bona fide? That explains it.”

     “Yes, yes, bona fide!” he agreed, nodding his head.  I ushered him to the couch and had him sit down.  “Tell them at work that I said so,” he urged.  I smiled, waved, and then left for work.

     It dawned on me then that I had left one crazy man for another crazy man.

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