Grab Me a Bud? WC 291

Grab me a Bud?
WC 291

George’s nose is buried in a comic book; I’m buried in a mountain of laundry.

“Could you give me a hand?” I ask sweetly.

“Oh, babe. I’m totally trashed. The boss worked my butt off.”

We’ve been living together for two years, and George has yet to propose. When I bring up marriage, he changes the subject. So handy for him to have a chief cook and bottle washer on the premises. He pays the rent, yes, but I take care of everything in the house. Plus, I work at Pizza Hut part-time to contribute financially.

“George, you tell me to say what’s on my mind, so here goes.”

I sit down across from him on the loveseat.

“I’m feeling used!” I wait for a response.

After a bit, he says, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” and sticks his nose back in the comic book.

I’m so mad, I’m speechless! I’ll pack my things and leave in the morning. There must be someone out there who will truly appreciate me. Love me. It’s certainly not George.

“While you’re up, grab me that last can of Bud in the fridge.”

“Sure.”

I plan to dump it on his fat head!

This is my last beer run for this ingrate. It’s the last pile of his dirty underwear I will wash, dry, fold, and put away. The meal he just gobbled down is the last one I will ever, ever cook for him.

This relationship is over!

I jerk open the refrigerator. Sitting on top of the lone beer can is a ring with the largest diamond I have ever seen. Underneath the ring is a note that says. “Babe, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” I yell from the kitchen. “Yes!”