By Chelsea Ruxer
“We had a cat.” It’s not what I was expecting, his reason for not wanting me to meet his ex-girlfriend. He admits it was a contentious breakup, a custody battle over an overweight Tabby named Snickers who occasionally got her head stuck in railing and once puked in his computer monitor.
“I think it’ll be okay if she’s there,” I say. “It’s been several months now.” She’s just his crazy ex-girlfriend, the one who took all of his nonstick pots with none of their intended lids and recently threatened him with unspeakable harm over something to do with a vacuum cleaner mistakenly shipped to him.
“I don’t know.” He’s still looking for the can opener the ex girlfriend might have thought went with the pots. One day, I will ask him how he’s gone seven months without noticing he’s missing a can opener. He emerges from under the stove and offers me a wine opener, which I reject.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. I’ve never known someone without a can opener. He should probably be more interesting.
“I don’t think we should go.”
“It’s up to you.” I say it like I trust his judgment, and not because we can’t open the canned tomatoes to make the bruschetta for the potluck to which Lauren will probably bring one of his lidless pots.
“Maybe we can go out with the others next weekend. Do you want a sandwich?”
“That’s fine.” I try to help him locate the toaster oven she probably also took and wonder what grudge and excess property I will hold when I’m his crazy ex-girlfriend.