Good-bye Mrs. Sox

Good-bye Mrs. Sox
By Tom Cup

It was my first real date in months and it was going well. We did the dinner
thing — a quaint little bistro that had great food; nothing too fancy just
good eats, great wine and warm conversation. I was in rare form. I displayed
the modern man, strong but sensitive, responsive but able to listen,
understanding and thoughtful. My date, Sheryl, was giving me every
indication that I wouldn’t be spending the night with Mrs. Sox, my usual
bedtime companion. There was a light mist beginning as we left the bistro
and headed for the movie theater. On the ride over, the thump, thump,
thumping of the windshield wipes emulated the hopeful thumping I would be
performing later that night. Sheryl’s hand slipped into mine. I looked into
her baby blue eyes and we both laughed. She knew what was on my mind. The
night was going well.

We arrived at the theater minutes before the show began — no waiting in
line. We ran giggling from the car towards the door. Thoughts of Gene Kelly
singing and dancing to “Singing in the Rain” filled my mind. The movie
wasn’t part of my history — it was made thirty years before I was born —
but, hey, if you want to get laid you better know the classics; girls love
that shit. I twirled Sheryl and began singing and dancing, poorly. She
laughed.

“Excuse me.”

The last thing I wanted was an interruption. I looked at the speaker. Some
soaked rug rat of a kid with a “Mister can I borrow a dime” expression on
his face. “Fuck!” I thought, “not now!” I managed to keep Sheryl moving
toward the theater entrance, quickly retrieved a buck from my pocket and
shoved it in the hand of the would-be attention grabber. OK, no harm done. I
had shown compassion by giving the kid money and now we could enjoy the
movie, right? Wrong. He was there with us in the theater. I don’t mean
physically. It started with Sheryl glancing back toward the theater lobby. I
asked what was wrong. “Oh nothing.” Oh nothing. I knew at that moment — she
was thinking about the kid, out there in the rain, cold, and maybe hungry.
Shit! Another glance and then she had to go to the bathroom. I debated with
myself for maybe fifteen seconds before heading for the lobby. I was right;
there she was, standing outside talking with the kid and looking nervously
back at me. It would be another night with Mrs. Sox.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound friendly but knowing my annoyance showed,
“What’s going on? You’re missing the movie.”

“Rick,” Sheryl said to me, introducing the boy, “This is Max.”

“Nice to meet you, Max,” I said, extending my hand, but wanting to scream at
the boy to get the fuck out of here and stop fucking up my lay. It was too
late, of course. Max had already captured Sheryl. His sad, brown, puppy dog
eyes stared helplessly at me. Sheryl ran a hand through his drenched locks
of hair. Ding! Round over. It was a technical knock out. I had lost the
fight.

“Max got kicked out of his house,” Sheryl continued, “He doesn’t have any
place to stay.”

It was a challenge. I knew one when I heard one. I had played the sensitive
male and now she wanted me to prove it. If I wanted to get into her panties,
if I ever wanted to divorce Mrs. Sox, I had better put up or shut up. Max’s
eyes focused on the ground. I admit it, OK, I did feel sorry for the kid;
but damn, I wanted to get laid! I suggested that we take him to a shelter.
Bad move. Max trembled, said “Thanks, It’s OK,” and began to walk away.
Sheryl called after him and stared longingly at me. I gave in, ran after the
kid, and offered to let him stay the night at my place.