Word of the Day:
- a person of degraded, primitive, or brutal character.
- a prehistoric cave dweller.
- a person living in seclusion.
Alright. Making up for yesterday. Let’s do it.
She slaps him—just once, but very hard—and the sound rings out, punctuating her screech: “You troglodyte!”
The young lady in question is known by friend, foe, and proclaimed troglodyte alike as Elsabeth; her latest victim is the unfortunate Peter, and he has recently been unwise enough to break up with her in a public setting.
(Although this scenario has already played out several times, whether Elsabeth or a girl like her has been the protagonist, the casual observer finds that he or she is quite unable to look away. One might compare it to a particularly gruesome car wreck. Although we are quite sure of this story’s ending, let us indulge that mysterious desire and continue to watch the scene play out:)
“You idiot!” she screams, heedless of the many onlookers who are now beginning to look concerned at the stunning purple hue currently being adopted by Elsabeth’s face. “Don’t you know what you’re losing?! I am the best thing that has ever happened to you, you uncultured barbarian! Do you even know everything I’ve done for you?! I bought you a good suit, for God’s sake, and you think you’re ever going to find a girl as good as me?!”
“Um,” says Peter, who currently seems to be shrinking at a rather alarming rate.
“And where do you think that leaves me, you parasite?!” continues Elsabeth. “Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and I will have nothing to do because my boyfriend is a loser! I am going to be the laughingstock of my friends—they’re all going out tomorrow with their boyfriends, and I’m going to be single! And the dance!” For the first time in all this, Elsabeth begins to cry. “You insect, the dance! You didn’t even get to see the dress I bought for that, and you’re going to be so sorry, Peter, because, let me tell you, I look gorgeous in that dress. I look like a supermodel, Peter, and you’re never going to get to see that, because you’re an idiot, and you’re a caveman, and you have no idea how good you’ve got it! Once you figure it out, though, don’t even think about coming back to me, because I can do so much better than you!”
Elsabeth storms out of the café, sobbing. Peter stands up straight and looks around embarrassedly. Heedless of the pitying glances he gets, he brushes himself off, strides up to the girl behind the counter, and musters a smile.
“Are you free tomorrow night, miss?” he asks.
She blinks. “No,” she says. “I’m not.”
(She is, in fact, free tomorrow night; however, Peter need never know this bit of information.)