The Gift of Loser

Story Sent in by Sherrie:

Arthur and I browsed in a little main street gift shop on our first date together. He said it would be a fun place to go because "they had cool stuff." While we were there, he stacked a bunch of folded, decorative hand towels on top of his head and said to me, "Look, I'm a linen closet."

It was a little funny, so I laughed a little. That, though, seemed to encourage him. He put the towels down, grabbed a woven blanket, wrapped his face in it, and said, "Look! Now I'm a bed."

The saleswoman, who had to have been over 80, didn't notice, or else I'm sure she would've been upset at the way he was handling her merchandise. I laughed weakly and suggested to Arthur that we leave.

Instead, he grabbed a handful of silverware, balanced it on his head, and said, "Now I'm a kitchen! Drink me! Floss me!"

It didn't make any sense, but I cracked up a bit, all the same. Then, he took the forks and spoons off his head, put them down, and gave me a sultry look. He asked, "Want to see the washing machine room? Washing machine!"

Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and lifted my skirt. I kicked him, hard, and he fell back against a counter. Nothing breakable was on it, just a stack of throw rugs. Still, he fell to his knees, and shouted and yelled that I "broke his back" and that I was "paying for it."

The saleswoman either didn't hear or couldn't care less. Arthur was writhing on the floor. He didn't hit the throw rugs hard at all, and I knew it was all theatrics. I said to him, "Just calm down. What were you doing, lifting my–"

"Call an ambulance! Call a mortician! Oh!"

He moaned and groaned, and probably didn't even notice that I left him there and went home. I haven't been back there since. Maybe he's still there, rolling by the rugs, accompanied by an oblivious elderly proprietor.