Drinks with Megan

I met up with Megan for drinks last evening. She promised to be on best behavior after what happened last time we held a public rendez-vous. I figured she was lying, but agreed to the meeting anyway. I guess I have a soft spot in my heart for her.

Megan certainly does not have a soft spot for me, because her heart is made of the blackest obsidian. Volcanic glass is hard all over, bitch.

I got there 15 minutes early and saw that Megan was already there. She took a booth near the window so she could see everyone who drove up to the bar. She wanted to see if I had been tailed. Megan stood up to embrace me, and I noticed she hadn't touched her beer.

"You look good," she said.

Then she punched me square in the face. As I tasted the blood dripping into my mouth, I muttered to myself, "I knew she was lying."



---
Hours after that beating, I realized I was lucky.

The cut on my nose will heal; the black eye will fade; the my swollen testicles will eventually return to their regular size. Even my wounded pride wasn't a permanent condition. Not many, few immortals even, walk away from such an encounter with Megan. I danced with the devil and lived to tell the tale.

See, I knew it wasn't personal. It was just business and that's why I didn't attempt to flee (fighting back was never an option). Take it like a man.

She knew that I knew, and appreciated it, which is why she bought me a beer afterwards.

And I knew that she knew that I knew, which is why I stayed and enjoyed a few more rounds with her.

And I think she knew that I knew that she knew that I knew, which may have been why she offered me a ride home but then dropped me off at a highway rest stop 45 minutes from where I live. Actually that was probably because she was drunk.