I think I might be a little bit psychic. I can’t predict the winning lottery numbers and I won’t be starting a hotline any time soon, but I can spot a breakup coming days, even weeks ahead of time. I admit there’re always little clues before the big break, but it’s more a feeling I have. It’s something in my gut that says, ‘Get out the chocolate and Jane Austen – this one’s going to be a doozey.’
I’ve been down this road before. Ellie meets boy. Boy seduces with promises of commitment. Ellie falls in love with boy. Boy turns out to be a scum-bucket. Right now my psychic senses are telling me my boyfriend, Tim, may be scum-capable. Alright, he hasn’t actually done anything to warrant my suspicion, but that in and of itself is curious. For a guy with a naturally naughty disposition, he’s been acting like a damn choirboy. Four times last week I came home to fresh flowers. Every girl knows receiving flowers once in a while means, “I love you,” and getting them four times in one week means, “Sorry I screwed my secretary.”
There’s also the issue of his sudden disinterest in foreplay. He used to take his time on me, brushing his hands over my body and whispering dirty words against my neck until I was floating off the bed. But lately he’s claimed to be, “too bushed for foreplay tonight, Babe.” Last week I even offered to do that ‘special thing.’ That which is normally reserved for birthdays and anniversaries, and he turned me down in favor of watching the Rangers play the Mariners. No guy turns down that to watch four hours of baseball on TV.
For these reasons and others, my psychic warning bells have kept up a persistent clanging in my ears. Even though he smiles and soothes and assures me of his love, I can’t stop doubting him. It’s making me crazy. I feel like I’m turning into Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction. I’m one flower delivery shy of making rabbit stew for dinner and practicing holding my breath under water. I feel ridiculous and disgusting for not trusting him, but in the depths of my soul I know he’s out there somewhere, sucking face with a bleach blond bimbo with big Texas hair and more boobs than brains. And that sucks because this time I thought things were going to be different. This time I thought I’d found the guy who was going to give me my H.E.A.—Happily Ever After.
I blame my father for my trust issues with men. It’s no coincidence I received my psychic gift on the same morning he walked out on Mama and me. When I was six he began taking a keen interest in my schooling and in my twenty-four year old kindergarten teacher, as it turned out. I’ll never forget the anguish in my mom’s eyes when she told me he’d left us. I wish I could say that the experience toughened me up, put me on my guard, but the truth is that surviving heartbreak was a lesson I had to learn for myself. And boy, have I been educated in the twenty-one years since.
Maybe if things had been different. Maybe if my dad had loved my mom, and I’d been more careful about who I gave my heart to, I would never have heard these stupid bells. But that’s not the way things happened. I’ve loved too much, lost too often, and know too well. I know the breakup’s coming, and I know somewhere nearby, there’s a big-boob bimbo getting all of my good foreplay.
I steer my car into the loading zone in front of our building, push the red hazard button on the dash, and kill the radio. If Luanne and her need for my black stilettos make me late getting back to work, God help her.
Percy, the building’s concierge, beats me to the door and ushers me through.
“Hey, Percy, just forgot something upstairs, I’ll only be a minute,” I say, heading for the elevator.
“Of course, Ms. Ellie, not a problem. I guess I must be getting old because I thought you was upstairs already. Must be losing my mind!” Percy resumes his post behind the ebony desk. His dark face, gentle and lined with age, breaks into a smile as he chuckles to himself.
I stop mid-step, turning to look at him as my stomach drops to my feet. “Why would you think that?”