through the slits in his eyelids, but he managed to stay upright and enthusiastic as he slurred, “Hell yesss I know what I want! I wan’ brefass!”
The fuck?
“Did you just say breakfast?” I asked, trying real hard not to cringe.
“Yep. I wan’ it to say brefass. On my foot.”
Oh, for the love of God.
Ethan made an impressively delayed gesture toward one of his bare feet, and the room erupted in laughter. Ken actually snorted. I had to admit, trying to keep my composure as if it were a perfectly natural thing for a grown man to want the name of the most important meal of the day on his foot was no small feat (Pun intended!), but I persevered.
“Nice choice, Ethan. I like it. Wherever did you come up with such an original idea?”
Ethan was ready with a rock-solid explanation. He had obviously defended this idea before because his retort was immediate and succinct.
Straightening his posture, Ethan declared to the room in a voice that was louder than necessary, “Because iss the firss meal of the day…AND…iss the bess meal.” He even threw in a sassy little head wag at the end, as if he’d just thrown down some irrefutable shit, and immediately, he had to catch his balance.
I could practically see my coveted Sailor Jerry–style heart tattoo with the letters BB emblazed across the front slipping through my fingers.
C’mon, Ethan. Give me something I can work with here, buddy. Ken is never going to sign off on this harebrained bullshit.
I glanced across the room at Ken to gauge the situation and found him casually sitting on the floor with his back against the coffee table, necktie undone, top of his collared work shirt unbuttoned, quietly laughing his ass off.
It was not looking good, but I pressed on, determined. “You make some excellent points, E. Have you thought about a font?”
“Normal.”
Duh.
“Are we talking Arial? Times New Roman? Helvetica?”
“Caps lock!” Ethan threw one arm up in the air for emphasis while he swayed with his eyes closed.
I bit my lip to suppress the cackle percolating in my throat and managed to summarize through gritted teeth, “So, you want it to say breakfast, on your foot, in all caps, in a normal font?”
“Fuck yes ma’am I do!”
My brilliant plan was gasping and flopping like a prized sea bass before my very eyes. At least the swingers were still on board. Allen grabbed Ethan by the shoulder straps of his tank top and spun him around to face Ken.
Jostling Ethan’s floppy body like a rag doll, Allen shouted over his shoulder at Ken, “C’mon, dude! This man needs a tat, stat!”
Not even pretending like he was going to get up, Ken turned his attention to Ethan and said, trying like a gentleman to suppress his laughter, “I just think you’re gonna regret it, man.”
Fuck off, Ken! Who asked you?
In a moment of desperation, and with surprising lucidity, I blurted out, “Ethan, is there anybody you can call who could verify for Ken that you’ve actually wanted this tattoo for longer than twenty-four hours?”
It was a long shot, but I’ll be damned if Ethan didn’t produce not one, not two, but three SoCal douche bags on speakerphone who all had the same response when he announced that he was going to get “that tattoo I’ve always wanted.”
Without missing a beat, each one mused in a prototypical stoner drawl, “Duuuude…you’re finally gettin’ the breakfast tattoo on your foot? No way! That is soooo awesome, bro!”
It was divine intervention! Surely, Ken couldn’t argue with that kind of evidence! Ethan had clearly been talking about having an ode to the most important meal of the day permanently scrawled along his instep for, like, weeks.
Who was Ken to deny Ethan his dream?
I’ll tell you who Ken was. Ken was the asshole who was going to deny Ethan his dream.
And mine. As usual.
Once the clock struck twelve and Ethan’s big day was over, Ken decided it was time to take the Alexanders and the swingers home, leaving me behind to make sure that our children wouldn’t perish in their sleep or get seized by agents from the Department of Family and Child Services, who were probably already on their way.
I watched as my final Hail Mary attempt to get Ken to proclaim his love for me through the permanent art of tattoo stumbled out the door and into the night. Sitting alone on my now empty couch, in my now quiet living room, in the wake of yet another