He had been polite in this "romantic" relationship

He had been polite in this "romantic" relationship long enough. The brainless courtesies, the phony listening. The repeating. He had made a special dinner so that he could

establish the new boundaries and principles. After eighteen months of hugs and side-lip kisses, he was barreling toward a fork in the road with only a minor bias for continuing

to apply moisturizer even though the bottle clearly indicated that it was well past its expiration date. He'd slather it on even though it felt like fire ants were attacking his

freshly shorn scrotum, which seemed to always pop up in the most surprising places. One time, Bobby's fetid, but moisturized shorn scrotum was

Minding it's own business when a softball flew in, as if from nowhere, and clobbered it head on. The pain was intense but

manageable until the bat followed and finished the job. It was an ugly scene. The police sketch artist had to do an even sketchy job than usual just to get out of there. When the

three amigos say the job is finished, no one picks up a shovel. You know what I mean? Ride the bull with your pants dowm, thats what the cops always told us kids.

You won't be able to walk again. But you know what I said?

No, what? (His conversation was drifting) "I feel like DANCING! and I just tap-tap-tapped outta there." I was about to argue but my head slammed as I slipped off my barstool.