“Dude. You just said not to sit on the cushions.”
“The decorative cushions,” he attempted to explain, as he yanked me back up on the couch next to him. “Obviously you can sit on the couch cushions. That’s how couches work.”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TEACH ME COUCH ETIQUETTE?”
I guess I may have said that a bit loudly, because when Victor’s mom walked back in with the drinks she gave me a strange look, and I was so flustered I couldn’t even think straight, so I quickly took a drink of what was the worst Kool-Aid in the world, and (after a small coughing fit) I realized that “mixed drink” actually referred to some kind of wine spritzer, and not a drink that you make from a mix. After it was clear that I wasn’t going to die, she tried to fill the awkward silence by showing me pictures of Victor in his tux with lots of different girls, who all had good hair and formal dresses, and probably never even heard of bread-sack shoes. Victor kind of rolled his eyes when his mom went on about all the debutante balls Victor had gone to with these girls, and I nodded, trying to look politely interested. Then she asked me when I came out and I said, “Oh, I’m not gay. I’m dating your son,” which I thought was pretty clear to begin with. Then Victor started coughing loudly and Bonnie looked confused, but then she got distracted, because Victor sounded like he’d swallowed his own tongue, and then right after that Victor said that we should probably leave.
On the way home, Victor explained that “coming out” is what debutantes do when they reach womanhood. I told him that he sounded like a tampon commercial, and he rolled his eyes. Then I yelled at him for spending so much time teaching me the proper fork to use when we didn’t even stay for dinner, and he was all, “You couldn’t even use the fucking couch correctly!” He had a point, so I sighed and sat in silence, because it’s hard to argue with confidence when you’ve just found out that you’ve been using couches wrong your whole life.
We stopped at Dairy Queen on the way back, which was comforting, because they give you only one set of silverware, unless you order the Peanut Buster Parfait, in which case they give you that extra-long red plastic spoon so you can reach the fudge at the bottom of the cup. And even then there’s a picture of an ice cream cone on the end of that spoon, just in case you get confused about what it’s for. This is when I started venting about why Dairy Queen is better than fancy restaurants, and Victor stared at me, fascinated, as if he were totally surprised that no one had ever thought of that before, or like he wondered what the hell was wrong with me. It was a look he’d perfected in our last year together.
I took a deep breath and I leaned forward to look at him, grimly. “Look. This is us. I’m the Dairy Queen ice cream spoon. You are the escargot spoon. That’s why this is never going to work.”
Victor paused, then leaned into me across the table and whispered, “Fork,” and I was all, “I don’t get it. . . . Is that how fancy rich people pronounce the F-word?” And he smiled crookedly, like he was trying not to laugh, and said, “No. You eat escargot with a fork. Not a spoon.” And I yelled, “Exactly! This is exactly what I’m talking about,” and Victor laughed and said, “I don’t care that you don’t know what an escargot fork is. I think it’s adorable that you don’t. And you will learn all of this. Or you won’t. But it doesn’t really matter, because I happen to like Dairy Queen spoons.” And I smiled hesitantly, because he said it so confidently that it was hard not to believe him, although I did suspect that he was just being nice because he didn’t want to get dumped by a girl in a Dairy Queen who couldn’t even use a couch properly. That’s pretty much the worst way to get dumped, ever.
Actual picture of Victor and me on his parents’ couch. Please note how uncomfortable Victor is to even be near the couch cushions. It’s like he’s poised to run from them. And at this point I still think I’m the crazy one.
Just Your Average Engagement Story
When I was in junior high I read a lot of Danielle Steele. So I always assumed that the day I got engaged I’d be naked, covered in rose petals, and sleeping with the brother of the man who’d kidnapped me.
And also he’d be a duke.
And possibly my stepbrother.
Then one of us would get stabbed with a broken whiskey bottle and/or raped.
Turns out the only part I was right about was that one of us was going to get stabbed.