MELISSA’S HUBRIS

I

heartily despise having my evening just-before-bed routine interrupted. Everyone knows that. However, on this particular night the code was breached. It started off with a violent rapping on my door. I grudgingly dragged my dead-beat bag of bones out of bed towards the door. I looked terrible, but in no way worse than or even remotely as hideous as the contraption of nature before me. It was Brian – I was only able to discern this by virtue of the fact that we’ve known each other since we were seven. His peepers were heavily distended and their color matched that of his crimson red shirt. I tell you, it was not a sight I’d wish any unfortunate being to behold on a dark eerie night. It seemed to me that the slightest tap on the back of his head would cause them to pop out of their sockets and roll on the floor like a pair of bowling balls. And his breath was in no condition to alleviate the shock. I was concerned. He sprawled his hulking body across the sofa with his hands reaching past either end. I believe in situations like this – I mean when an old buddy walks in on you in the middle of the night looking like a prisoner of war- your curiosity is usually expected. I cleared my throat and smiled, in a bid to lighten up the tension a little bit.

“I’ll bet my last slipper on it. There is a problem of enormous gravity for which you seek a resolution.”

He just sighed.

This was not the usual Brian. I could sense he wasn’t experiencing a completely dandy evening so I brewed him a cup or two of some Indian tea. Those Indian concoctions sometimes tend to work magic and breathe new life into distressed beings.

“You don’t have anything stronger than this do you?” He inquired.

I shook my head in disappointment. He sighed once more and took a few sips of the tea as consolation.

“So what is it?’ I asked.

He grimaced as if he’d suddenly been afflicted with some form of severe spontaneous bowel distemper.

“Melissa cut me loose.”

I pondered. That was not what I expected. I never approved of the union, but as long as it made Brian happy, it was good enough for me.

“She just called me up earlier today and told me we were off. She had made a unilateral decision to put the union asunder.” I just nodded to signify comprehension.

“You see the problem is she wont take my calls and she wont tell me what I did. You know if I knew then I could apologize.”

This took me by surprise. Brian never apologizes. The situation is more grave than I thought, I told myself. And it gets weirder from here.

“Can you go over to her office and talk to her for me? Just stop by for a chat with her and don’t mention this meeting. In a casual everyday conversation, just bring my name up and listen to what she says. Would you do that please?” Brian implored. The man was breaking apart; I tell you. He was beginning to sound like Fitz, back in sixth grade when Amanda wouldn’t study with him anymore. The poor chap lost five pounds in two weeks. I had to salve his mother’s apprehensions by assuring her that it was due to nothing more than his unfortunate romantic disenfranchisement. She thought the boy was really sick, almost to the point of going bananas as mothers do when their sons sulk all day and refuse dinner. I made a few phone calls and the truth eventually surfaced. Fitz had divvied up some cookies with Ivy after their late afternoon violin lessons and when Amanda who had gone to see the dentist that day came into the know she was convinced that Fitz had succumbed to Ivy’s beckoning. After some diplomatic negotiations (with yours truly being the chief arbitrator), it was decided that Fitz’s action was just an innocent friendly gesture; inane though, in Amanda’s opinion. From that moment Fitz learnt to keep his cookies to himself. And his reward? He and Amanda are still together almost two decades later.

I didn’t suppose that Brian had split cookies with anyone.

“Will you?” he asked breaking my train of thought.

“I’d love to, but you know I have very little experience communicating with Mel. All our verbal encounters have always been marred by acrid sarcasm and devious insinuations,” I told him.

“Well I’d bet it was all your fault,” he said

“Not exactly,” I started to defend myself, “you remember the time you came down with the stomach flu? I believe she had a road trip planned with her friends. Well, I took the liberty of informing her of your predicament and implored her to dog the trip and soothe your discomfort with her sweet presence. She told me to go to hell, sit on hot coals and commune with my friend the devil.”

I must tell you, I’m not a man who nurses grudges against ladies – they say I have a big heart, and I’m proud of that- but when someone makes it clear to you that she wants your rear end scorched in the depths of Hades do you go back seeking closure?

“Well?” I said expecting him to make some comment. He just grunted and cocked his ear towards the bedroom where the sound of Patsy Cline crooning “Back in Baby’s Arms” was emanating.

“I can’t believe you listen to such tripe,” he said, “No wonder no girl likes you. Mushy love songs and wimpy looks; it couldn’t get any worse.”

I raised my index finger and shook my and started to protest, but I let better judgment sway me. His statement was totally out of line; a truly tasteless untruth. How about the time Derrika stole a kiss from me during lunch? Huh? Well that was in third grade, but it still caused a buzz. And what about Johanna? She wrote me a long letter relating her years of helpless pining for my attention which I was so unkind to deny her or too dumb to recognize her flirtatious gestures towards me. That’s what she said in the letter. This was just before she left for Norway for good. Ivy and I had a thing or two in high school. I wasn’t about to boast or count the number of damsels I’ve charmed so I let his comment slip. He was a romantic in distress; he could be pardoned.

“You look tired, why don’t you sleep over. We can talk about this tomorrow morning. How about that?”

. “When are you going to the office tomorrow?”

“Noon or later,” I replied.

“Whoa! That late? What happened?”

“My advisor is out of town,” I said and he nodded in comprehension.

I prepared the couch for him. In a few moments he was gone, like a baby.

Even though I had only six hours of sleep that night – two hours shy of my usual dose, I felt unusually refreshed the following morning. Brian had already left.

I walked into the local coffee shop around nine O’clock in the morning to procure my restorative dose of latt¬é and freshly baked egg-souffl¬és. I took my usual seat, the one just by the window. Brian walked in. “Ah, I knew I would find you here,” he said, taking the seat across from me. He was still unshaven but his shirt was well pressed. He looked more human than he did the previous night. A few shots of something stronger than what I’m used to seemed to have refreshed and restored him to his usual vibrant self. I could still however, spot some deep distress in his eyes. I had just made my order. From the corners of my eyes I saw Lucille’s rotund friend, the one who bears an uncanny resemblance to sausage with legs, shuffle in our direction. She stationed herself right in front of me her back facing me. Now, I don’t have to tell you that I am a gentleman, and a reserved one at that; I don’t go about ridiculing the proportions of a lady’s biological make-up but the truth is with this hippo’s rear end in my face, even my peripheral vision was totally obstructed! She made no effort to give me a visual reprieve. She stood there flirting and making utterly fatuous comments in a bid to get Brian into a conversation. She’s tried this before, a thousand and one times before but to no avail. Brian preferred the anorexic emaciated types. Think “Paris Hilton”. She took his order – just a side note, Brian is the only customer who doesn’t have to walk over to the counter to place his order (at least when this rhino is around)- and walked away. Brian sighed. “What do I have to do to get her to forget about me.”

“Give her your phone number and ask her to call you in minus-fifty-pound’s time,” I said, and we guffawed.

“I got some info on Mel,” Brian said, “the news is, she’s into some other bloke.”

“Oh?” That’s all I could manage and Brian cut me off, “wait till I get my hands on that worm.”

“Don’t take it too hard my dear friend,” I said, seeking to allay his distemper, “you’re probably better off without her, think of all the other ladies that are checking you out, you can find someone in a few weeks.”

“Who? The baby elephant taunting me?” He said rolling his eyes in the direction of Lucille’s friend, who was currently bringing in his order. I giggled, “no seriously, buddy you have nothing to worry about, I don’t think Mel was good for you anyway.”

“Oh?” He said, but I wouldn’t let him continue.

“Do you remember last valentine’s day? She preferred spending it with her girlfriends and their boyfriends minus you. Remember?”

“Psst, that’s nothing,” he interjected, waving me off.

“And how about your birthday? Huh? This woman bought you a baby pit viper just cuz you cancelled a date with her because you had an exam. But for Fitz’s expert advise you’d probably be talking to angels by now. Or in your case a darker entity.”

He frowned and glared at me, “and your point is?”

“She deflated the tires of your new car. Why? Because you gave your slimy friend i.e me, and his date, Anna-Carolina a ride before she got a taste of the novelty,” I said, hoping he would take something out of it.

“So?” He asked. Brian is not slow, the man has an IQ of 129, but at this point I was convinced that the break-up had damaged his capacity to reason.

“So this damsel is a psycho! Literally, I mean.”

“Watch your mouth you twerp, “ he warned.

I sighed and shook my head.

“Look I just want you to find out who this guy is alright?” He said.

I looked into his eyes and saw heartache. His face had “Broken Heart” written in block letters all over it. I sighed.

“I’ll go an talk to her,” I said wincing at every word. You would appreciate my apprehension if you knew Melissa.

He still wanted her after I’d done everything in my power to tell him that the match was not an agreeable one. He wouldn’t budge, so I caved. My friend had just served me a plate of hot coals and was begging me to chow them down. For Brian, I’d do anything; even if it meant singeing my tongue or scalding my throat. I could feel my beneficent heart at work. If facing Melissa was what would bring Brian back his good sport then facing Melissa I will. That was my resolution and I was sticking to it.

Editing ended here

It is a wonder how foul events keep happening in a row. I had just changed into my PJs when I heard soft rapping on my door. Again! I shuffled over and opened the door with my eyes-lids heavily drooping over my peepers. I was hoping it would send a message to the intruder, Brian, no doubt. At first I thought it was olfactory hallucination. Brian does not use Channel No. 5 perfume. And then there was the loud clicking of heels. This was definitely not Brian. Auditory and olfactory hallucination five seconds apart? It couldn’t be. I slowly opened my eyes, left first, then I gulped. Sweat gushed out of my pores like water through a fire-hose. This is not good. This not good, I kept repeating to myself. As I believe you must have already divined, if you are sharp, it was Melissa! Melissa cloaked in her signature red Armani cocktail dress; sleeve-deficient and cleavage-baring - if you care to know. Now I don’t have to tell you that this is not the kind of apparel you don to accost a man in PJs.

“Hi,” I squealed. “Hello,” Melissa said, biting and licking her lower lip. Definitely not the kind of action you’d care to see in a dimly lit room. I flipped several light switches on. And there was light. Lots of it! She looked blonder than ever. Melissa giggled as she examined my outfit, “why are you dressed like that?”

The break-up has damaged them both, I thought. It is after 10pm, I’m in my dark apartment, why else would I be dressed in my Pajamas?

“You look cute though,” she said and chortled. I froze in time.

A complement? From Melissa? Impossible. I worked hard to find some subliminal insult or threat, but a satisfactory answer eluded me. She sat down in the sofa and crossed her legs. Her dress had a very long split from the bottom to the middle of her thigh. Her perfume had diffused in to the late night air creating an ultra-sensual aura. I will say no more.

She looked down and started twiddling her fingers. She’s nervous. She’s nervous. Why would she be nervous? My mind was racing. She shouldn’t be here. Whatever Brian had done to her I had nothing to do with it. I’m aware of her violent inclinations. I left the door open a crack. You can never tell when you’ll have to take some gazelle-leaps out of the door to seek refuge from a psychotic lady in red with a dagger.

“I got your letter,” she said, “that was very sweet.” She bit her lower lip again. Her eyes had suddenly moistened and started glistering in the light.

“My letter? Aha,” I said, “umm … could you remind me of the contents again?”

“Silly. Stop being cute and come over here,” she said and laughed.

I cleared my throat and whimpered. She shook her head, got up and walked slowly to me and then pressed her lips gently against mine and took my hand. Frozen? Paralyzed? Maybe catatonic is a better expression. I was catatonic. My auditory, olfactory, vocal and ambulatory capabilities were essentially shut down. More gulping and more sweating were the only activities I seemed to be performing. She kept pulling on my limp right arm. “Come on. Stop messing around and come on.”

“Mel?” I squealed, “I think there has been a mistake. A grave one.”

She looked at me puzzled. “Huh?”

“I … I … I didn’t write any letter,” I said, breathing heavily and more rapidly by now.

She slapped me on the shoulder and said, “don’t be silly. And stop being cute. I’m sorry I was mean to you. It was all just a cover up. I admire you cool demeanor, your modesty and your unassuming nature. I guess you saw through my mask.” She bit her lip again and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Mel?” I said but she wouldn’t allow me to continue; she cut in, “aww … I don’t know what to do, how are we going to tell Brian?” She reached over, tip-toed and wrapped her arms (very soft and moist arms – just a side note) around my neck and squeezed me tightly.

Tears were rolling down her eyes by now. I need not tell you; my shock was overwhelming. It nearly knocked me over. Truly. Melissa could cry? All along I thought she was without lachrymal glands! She wiped away the tears with the four fingers of her right hand and sniffled. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to see me cry,” she sobbed and then smiled and resumed twiddling her fingers. I reached over to the book-shelve and pulled out a bunch of Kleenex tissues and handed them to her. “Thanks,” she said. It was suddenly getting outrageously hot inside. My clothes were completely soaked by now. Something she said troubled me greatly; how are we going to tell Brian? We? Who is we? I divined that she probably meant she and I. I deemed it the appropriate time to set the record straight:

1) There is no “we.”

2) There is no letter. Even if there is, I did not write it.

3) I think she’s playing a very sick elaborate prank.

“Melissa Hartford,” I said sternly, “you have to sit down, we need to talk.” She motioned me to sit by her in the sofa. I cleared my throat. I mellowed when I saw the candor in her eyes and a sincere expression which, mind you, I did not expect; on her face. I scanned the room briefly to make sure that there wasn’t any sharp object around that could be used as a weapon, because I was about to deal her a death blow and knowing her disposition I figured there was enough reason for concern.

“Mel, “ I said, “Mel, I don’t know how to say this. Um …,” she looked at me with expectant eyes. “Mel, I think there has been some grievous miscommunication.”

She furrowed her brows. She needed clarification, no doubt. “Hmm …,” I said, “I didn’t write that letter. I’m sorry. Truly.”

“Mel. Mel?’ Nothing. “Mel?” She sat there taking slow deliberate breaths.

‘Don’t do this. This isn’t funny,” she said.

“Mel, as much as I hate to tell you otherwise, I did not write that letter,” I confirmed her fears.

“Then who did?” She asked. I shrugged my shoulders. Her teeth were chattering. Under normal circumstances I’d light a bon-fire, do a victory dance and probably sacrifice as fattened cow to some deity; but not tonight. Tonight I had to sympathize with Mel.

“Don’t do this, please. But you do feel the same way about me though, don’t you? I mean I’ve seen the way you look at me. Even though we’ve been engaged in a perpetual battle of words, underneath it all our personalities do click. I know that and so do you,” she said.

“I’m sorry Mel, but I don’t think our acrid banters have done much to warm my heart towards you.” I just stopped short of telling her that I truly despised her, in every sense of the word.

“Are you serious?” She started sobbing again, “I can’t believe I came here to make a fool of myself.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks by the gallon. “Mel, Mel, don’t cry. Nobody has to know about this.” Tony Braxton and Kenny G were blurting out “How Could an angel Break My Heart.” Sometimes I feel the radio stations know exactly when to play sappy love songs. I ran into the bedroom to turn it off. I brought back a whole box of Kleenex with me and sat by her. She was trying to say something interspersed with sobs and sniffles. I comprehended none. I’m not a good consoler, I can tell you that; but seeing Mel tear her heart open and shed the first buckets of tears she’s probably shed in at least a decade I could do nothing but sympathize with her and get in touch with my human side. I put my arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry Mel. Don’t worry Mel,” I kept saying, like a broken record. By this time she could have easily been my best friend. I really felt sorry for her. Truly, I was shocked. I never thought such positive sentiments for her were possible (at least not from me).

Sometimes I think Murphy’s Law was written for me. I heard yet another slight knock. I lifted up my head with the intention of accosting the unwelcome visitor with a few choice words, only to see that Brian had suddenly materialized through the door, which was, by the way, still slightly open. I don’t think I possess the enough linguistic prowess to describe the look on his face. His lower jaw was sagging and his eyes were frozen open. My hands were glued to Melissa’s shoulder. Mel wasn’t aware of Brian’s presence because her eyes were shut and her head was firmly attached to my shoulder while she sobbed away.

“I don’t believe this. You double-crossing freak” were Brian’s first words. I disagreed with his comment, but better judgment caused me to refrain from protesting. I admit that my ears seem to be slightly out of proportion, but I am not a freak. My arms stretch slightly beyond my knees; unusual, maybe; but that hardly qualifies as a freakish feature.

“Calm down Brian. We need to talk,” I implored him.

“Oh, we’ll talk alright. After I see your blood you treacherous reptile,” he said. He was beginning to sound like Mel in her normal days but his intentions were clear. He also threatened to puncture my kidney or tear out my spleen or perform some other heinous operation of some sort. Whatever it was it did not augur well for me if I intended to celebrate my next birthday with the usual pomp and pageantry. My mind was racing. My heart was pounding. Quarts of sweat were oozing out of each pore on my skin. Mel was now standing by the bedroom door shivering at every muscle like a flimsily clad date caught in a snow- storm. She covered her mouth with her right hand as the tears gushed out from her eyes – she seemed to have an ample supply of tears tonight. I would have appreciated a few soothing words from her but none came. Brian and I did circles around the sofa. He, being the pursuer and I, the pursued. We went round and round like a pair of pre-schoolers playing musical chairs.

“Stay still,” he kept saying and I told him that such a course of action would be overly imprudent and unhealthy for me, given his current state of hysteria. We had done probably about ten miles already when I realized that I couldn’t keep up, so I stopped. I just stopped and closed my eyes. The first hymn that came to mind was “Nearer My God To Thee.” Very appropriate, for my current situation, I thought. Brian grabbed me by the collar and pulled me closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his breath and his heavy cologne was ______ through my nose. I heard Melissa let out a few squeals. For a brief moment I could picture my obituary in the newspapers. “Dead at 25.” The old ladies would shake their heads in sorrow and young ones would weep uncontrollably for the loss. “You’re not worth it. You spineless creep. I always thought you were my best friend,” he said and paused for a moment, “I was wrong; very wrong.” His voice cracked. The man was pretty broken; I could tell. A sniffle from him, and I know tears would’ve rolled. That would be a very very bad sign. Brian is a man; a true quintessence of masculinity. My heart ached for my friend but I could not find my voice to run the explanation by him. An explanation would terribly cripple Melissa’s reputation (whatever was left of it, anyway). Besides those pathetic and useless squeals, Melissa had been quiet all along. Brian pushed me into the sofa and he walked away, saying nothing to Mel. Melissa rushed to my side immediately after Brian had left. I was the one that needed consoling this time. She rubbed back several time inquiring if I was hurt. Physically, I wasn’t; but the thought that Brian regarded me as perfidious friend hurt a whole lot more.

“I’m sorry. It was all my fault. I’m really really sorry,” she said. I couldn’t agree more. But tonight was a night of civility and compassion so I told her she was free from blame. “Thanks for keeping this between us,” she said and kissed my cheek. “Goodnight,” and she was gone.

Now, folks, you realize that she put me in a very difficult position. She expected me to keep mum about our little vignette; but the key to my exoneration and the reinstatement of my good relations with my dear friend was to snitch on her. The rest of the night was devoted to contemplation. What to do? What to do? Joe called around 4am to recount the version Brian had made known to him. “What do you have to say for yourself?” He asked.

“Nothing. Nothing now.” That was all the answer I could give. I do not know how, but sleep slowly crept up on me and I was only conscious again the following morning, which thankfully, was a Saturday.

I picked up my copy of P.G Wodehouse’s Mating Season which I had been arduously trying to get through over the past month. It was late afternoon and the prospect of stretching out in the old beat-up hammock, enjoying a good book and forgetting my problems seemed very agreeable. So that’s what I did. I had barely flipped a page when I saw Luna, the evil twelve-year old girl with the retarded twin sister, approaching me on her rusty pink bicycle. The kid couldn’t look any uglier, with the hideous contraption purported to be a helmet over her disproportionate head. I turned up the volume on my iPod and pretended no to have seen her. She stopped by the hammock and pulled the earphone out of my right ear. “You could rupture you eardrum, you know,” she said and stared at me smiling. The smile didn’t help her looks. “Thanks for the tip. Now scurry on along. I need to finish this book,” I informed her.

“You’ve been reading this for over a month now, haven’t you? You should have finished by now.”

“Exactly. And if you stop bothering me maybe I will,” I said, without even looking at her. She just shook her head. She looked away and said, “How was your date?”

“My what?” I asked.

“Your date with Melissa,” she said and giggled. Shocked? Well, I tell you, folks, I was. Sometimes I feel this kid knows too much. For her age, definitely too much. I tried to straighten myself and sit up but I only succeeded in coming into violent contact with the ground. She laughed. I got up and brushed myself clean.

“What do you know, you little …,” I started to say.

“Now, now. Watch you language young man,” she said, still giggling, “say please.”

“Huh?”

“Say please,” she stared and grinned widely.

“Tell me what you know, please, “ I said reluctantly.

“Convince me. Say ‘pretty please’,” she insisted.

“Look here, you little harpy, I’m just seconds away from wringing the answer from you,” I tried to intimidate her. I should have known better (that’s what you’re probably thinking. And you’re right).

“Hmm … Let’s see what Tom would think of this,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She was aware of the effect of this subtle threat. For those of you who don’t know, Tom is my next door neighbor, Lucille’s, retarded cop boyfriend. He seems to have fantasies about pulverizing my skull with his baton, goaded by none other but Lucille. Any excuse, no matter how flimsy, will be enough motivation for him. I heaved a heavy sigh of distress and she laughed.

I forced the words through my clenched teeth, “pretty please.”

“Pretty please what?” She said.

“Screw you. You don’t know squat,” I said - a completely futile attempt at reverse psychology.

She shrugged her shoulders, mounted her bike and started ride away. But not before she quickly said, “I know she’s in love with you.”

“Wait,” I shouted. I had a nagging feeling that this kid knew more than I did. “How do you know that?” She told me that she could tell me more but for a price. Negotiations – that’s what she calls it. Her price was for me to take her to the new gelato place. I succumbed to my curiosity and agreed. She sped through the driveway with me tailing her on foot. Once she got into the building, I heard her yell, “Mom! Mom, the geeky neighbor is treating us to ice-cream.” Then she called her slow sister, Sunny, to get out of bed and come along. I’ve been called many names before –goofy nincompoop, by Mona; clumsy oaf; by Lucille and more recently, spineless creep, by my best friend and now geeky neighbor.

I got myself two scoops of butter-pecan flavored ice cream; Luna got two of vanilla and one of toffee. Sunny ordered a scoop of just about everything available and shoved spoonfuls down her throat with such quick successions you would think she’d been starved. By the time she was done almost every spot on her face had had a taste of the ice cream. She looked at me and smiled. “Go get your self a few more scoops,” Luna told her. As if noticing the faux pas she turned to me and asked, “you don’t mind, do you?” “Of course not. Please help yourself Sunny.” Luna gave me a coy smile. Sometimes she is almost sweet. “Now then, let’s hear it. What do you know,” I asked her when Sunny had left.

“I know you had a nocturnal visitation from her,” she said.

“Yes. I know that already. That’s my concern. How do you know that?”

She smiled knowingly. I could sense some mischief at hand. I couldn’t tell if she knew about the letter. I wasn’t about to risk my gentleman’s honor, so I refrained from asking her.

“I believe she related some weird story about some mysterious letter,” she said, nonchalantly. I sat there frozen not knowing what to say. “Don’t look so surprise,” she told me. “But …. But how….,” I stuttered.

“I wrote it,” she said curtly. I don’t believe “shock” is the appropriate word to describe to what I felt. My convictions of this pre-teen girl harboring some unclean spirit was getting stronger. I was dying to hear the explanation.

“Before you blow your fuse, listen up,” she said, sensing my anger. “It was in punishment to something she did.” Folks, I need not tell you that this kid was creeping me out by the minute. Who; or in her case, maybe what, gave her the authority to use my name to deliver retribution?

She told me that she heard Melissa talking to one of her shallow friends- I think it is none other than Chloe, the gossip queen. Apparently Sunny, whom Luna affectionately refers to as “my dear sweet sister” was running around minding her own business when Melissa started making unfounded negative references about her. What seemed to wound her most was Melissa’s attempt at rhyming; “Looney Luna and Slow Sunny”; and biting comment that Sunny is so stupid that she probably can’t find her own mouth in the dark (after observing her encounter with the ice cream, I wouldn’t say I totally disagreed with Mel) I almost laughed- admit it folks, it was a funny comment- but better judgment prevailed. I had no problem believing her story. Mel has the astounding talent for coming up with painfully insulting one-liners. She’s so good at them you’d think that she spends three hours everyday practicing. I was still waiting for the part where I come in. She smiled at herself, “it took a while to find the perfect retribution for her hubris.” I raised my eyebrows. “Hubris. H-U-B-R-I-S. It means haughtiness, arrogance, etcetera etcetera,” she said. “I know what ‘hubris’ means. I took the GRE you know,” I fought back. “Whatever,” she said, waving me off.

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me young lady,” I said in a stern tone. She continued unperturbed, “do you want to hear the rest or not?” She put a contented smile on her face again. “I knew she regarded you with an eye of favor.” Shakespeare.

“And how exactly do you know that?” I asked. “Well,” she started, “you remember the grad students’ picnic about two months ago? I was just sitting within an ear shot of her and her brain deficient friend, Chloe. You had just gotten yourself another glass of lemonade and a taco. Chloe told her to look at Brian’s dorky friend, you, that is. She slapped Chloe on the wrist and told her she thought you’re kinda cute. A statement I objected to, mentally, if you care to know. Of course that peeked my interest. So I inched closer to them. Surprisingly she described you in very favorable terms – cool demeanor, modest life-style, sweet throaty voice, gentleness, meekness and other mushy tripe like that- terms that Lucille would strongly disagree with. I don’t think I was even wholly in agreement with her either. At first I thought she just mocking but then she said….,” she paused. She blushed. “She said what?’ I inquired. She smiled shyly, “she … She made a positive reference to your posterior.” I shook my head and smiled. “Get hold of yourself. Stop blushing,” she chided. “Anyway, that was when I realized she had a secret desire to be entangled, romantically with you.”

“So then you wrote a letter, requiting her affection for me?” “Exactly. I knew she would come over and make a fool of herself,” she said.

“Your plan was seriously flawed, do you realize that?” I challenged her, “what if I really felt the same way about her?”

“Oh puh-leeze,” she scoffed, “I happen to know your true feelings for her. You could flay her alive with a blunt bread knife, if you had the guts.”

“And you’re sure of that because?” I asked.

“I heard you murmuring obscenities about her. And I must admit, one of your very severely limited virtues is that you seem to favor decent language. From your language I was able to discern that this creature would probably forever be in your black books, barring any divine intervention. Besides, and I mean no offense here, I knew you are so goofy that even if she practically threw herself at your feet, you wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do.” She giggled. “Interesting observation,” I said sarcastically.

“You did show her the door, right?” she asked.

“Young woman, contrary to what you believe, I’m a civilized man with a good heart. I soothed her pain with words of comfort and an affectionate embrace.”

“You?”

“Yes. I was surprised too.”

“I guess my plan did not work then,” she resigned.

“Oh. Be rest assured. It worked. Melissa has been humbled alright. But it back fired,” I said, “Brian walked in on us while we were tightly attached to each other whispering sweet words of comfort.” Luna covered her mouth with her hand in shock, “Oh my God! Are you hurt?”

“No, thankfully,” I said.

“Wow, Brian let you go? I guess your Sunday church contributions started paying off,” she said.

“I guess so. My miracle was long overdue.”

I informed her that Brian and I were now sitting on ice- he thinking that I was a spineless creep and a double-crossing freak. Luna pondered. Apparently this current turn of events was not factored into her plan. I still wasn’t sure how she was able to trick Mel into believing that I composed that foul billet-doux. She was in a contemplative mode so I refrained form pestering her. Her “sear sweet sister,” Sunny was walking up and down the counter tasting every flavor of ice cream. The man behind the counter was indulging her; he seemed to be equally fascinated about her vivacity and excitement as she was with the ice cream.

Luna came to, from her trance. She smiled blissfully. “I think I’ve got it,” she said.

“This time the plan is perfect. It is just plain beautiful. It’s so good I should win an award for it. By God I’m good,” she ranted. I was eager to acquaint myself with what devious schemes she had in store next. I admit, I should have taken control of the situation and found a solution to it, but I put this feat in the same slot as trampling over serpents and scorpions and undoubtedly such is Luna’s domain, so I let her free reign. She told me she would send me the full details later that night before I went to bed.