“Long canter!” the blue-haired lady shrieked.
“Lone cantor!” the man in the wheelchair insisted.
“Lone manger!” the corduroy man coughed.
Thibaud turned on me and spat, “You are a miserable excuse for a boyfriend! You are, like, the safety school of boyfriends. You are the beige of boyfriends. You are the plain yogurt of boyfriends.”
“Did Lily tell you that?”
“Of course!” he replied with a bright smile.
Thursday, December 18th
I couldn’t believe she’d said it. And I couldn’t believe she’d meant it.
I think we should break up.
I was confused.
I was upset.
I was angry.
“You’re getting it wrong,” I told her. “You’re getting everything wrong.”
Wednesday, December 17th
Thibaud’s smile was too bright. I knew he was lying.
“Leave her alone!” I warned. “Just leave Lily alone.”
“Or what? You’ll strangle me with your vocabulary? You’ll punch me with your mighty wit?”
The room had fallen deathly silent. I looked at the screen.
Jesus.
“Challenge him to a duel!” the man in the wheelchair groused at me.
“Yeah!” the corduroy man choked out. “Nail that weaselly bastard. He always steals my goddamn applesauce!”
“Fine,” I told them. Then I turned to Thibaud and said, “I challenge you to a duel.”
Thursday, December 18th
“How can you say that?” Lily yelled. Everyone was watching us. Then, nonsensically, she added, “That’s not even a Christmas sweater!”
Wednesday, December 17th
“And how do you suggest we duel?” Thibaud said, unimpressed.
I looked back to the old men.
“Get the pistols,” Mr. Corduroy said. “Vera, GET THE PISTOLS!”
The blue-haired lady nodded and then slowly—very slowly—rose from her chair. Then she slowly—verrrrrry slowly—walked over to a chest in the corner that was meant to be used by visiting great-grandchildren. Then, verrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr-ry slowly, she dug to the bottom and pulled out a pair of water pistols.
Then she went to the kitchenette and filled them with tomato juice.
“Stains more,” she explained.
We were handed the pistols. Wheelchair guy guarded the door.
“Ten paces,” the cougher told us.
Solemnly, we placed ourselves back-to-back.
The blue-haired lady began to count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
We stepped farther and farther apart.
Six. Seven. Eight.
I was doing this for Lily.
Nine.
I was not going to waste my shot.
Ten.
I pivoted. Got him in my sights. Pulled the trigger at the same time he pulled his.
We both…trickled.
Someone had forgotten to give our pistols their Viagra.
“ARRRRRRR!” Thibaud yelled, storming toward me.
“Ahhhhhhh!” I yelled, running away.
I pushed past Wheelchair Guy, into the hallway.
Smirking Sadie was out a-strolling, and she let out a yelp when she saw me plunging pistol-forward. I wanted Thibaud to shoot while we were on the run, to vac8 all his V8. But he was saving it for closer range.
I was not going to be his quarry.
“In the name of all that’s good and Lily!” I proclaimed, copping my best Young Han Solo pose and blasting away.
This time the trigger cocked, and the TJ flew forth.
Unfortunately, by proclaiming my attack, I’d given Thibaud time to dodge.
“Not so fast, milquetoast!” he growled. I feinted left, rocked right. He missed.
At this point, an orderly named Caleb saw the Bloody Mary flying through the air and screamed bloody murder at us. Thibaud went for another shot. I blocked it with an errant cafeteria tray. But this blocked my own shot, so I had to drop it.
Thibaud raised his pistol again. Ran forward. And slipped on the puddles we’d made.
From somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul, I unearthed the phrase, “Sugar, you’re going down!”
Thibaud screamed. Caleb the orderly screamed. Smirking Sadie called out, “Vera, you really gotta see this!”
I aimed. He writhed. I fired.
Eye of the bull.
As he was drenched, I slipped and I slid. He grabbed at my legs. I wobbled and fell.
I made sure to land on him.
“Seriously, though,” I said once our breath returned from being knocked out, “I’ve vanquished you.”
“Okay, you got me,” Thibaud conceded. “What do I have to do?”
“You,” I grunted, “have to throw us a party.”
Thursday, December 18th
“You’re not seeing what’s in front of you,” I told her. “First of all, this is a Christmas sweater. Just because it’s not showy—just because it doesn’t have tinsel or lights or a big bad reindeer on it—that doesn’t mean it’s not a Christmas sweater. The truth doesn’t have to advertise itself. All the truth needs to be is true.”
Lily looked so lost. “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
Finally I was able to tell her what I’d been going to tell her all along.
“Lily,” I said, “this is an intervention.”
“An intervention?” Lily asked, thoroughly confused.