Fragile Male Ego in 750 Words

Yep, another 750-word take on the trodden-to-dust 'surprise date' trope. Translation: nothing new, except for another take on the old fragile male ego excuse. If blowing the dust off your imagination for a 'proper' ending is not what you're up for, better click the old Back arrow.

In answer to those complaining about why I stop at 750 words: I see it as a challenge. No, it's not always successful, but I try—it's just what I do. By design, it'll be incomplete. If you don't like that, don't read it—why would you read something you KNOW you're not going to like? To those who wonder if I can write longer stories: a glance at my submissions list has a few. Again, maybe not the best, but I try, and I hope to improve (I'm new at this).

But. more than that, there are plenty of fine writers who write fine, longer, stories. Enjoy those. I do. Finally, everything is fiction, so if something doesn't sound realistic, now you know why.

*

It was as if Brenda also read LW stories. Everything tracked, starting with, "We need to talk," followed on cue by, "You know I love you," and the rest. Did she memorize the script?

Things went off-script, though, the moment she stopped.

"You done?" I asked in a neutral voice.

Surprised, she nodded.

"Finally," I said, keeping the unconcerned tone.

"What do you mean, finally?"

"I wondered when you were going to end the marriage."

"What? Didn't you hear me? I love you, we are not ending this marriage."

"Not we, you. If you go out Friday night with another man, you're ending this marriage. No ifs, ands or buts."

"Can't you get over your fragile male ego just once? It's only dinner. Maybe we'll go dancing for a while, but then I'll be back."

"Oh, whoop-de-frikkin'-doo. Her majesty might eventually grant her loser husband a few minutes of her hallowed presence. After giving George Johnson the best part of her evening. Sorry, dear, doesn't work for me. But don't worry about me, I'll figure something out."

Her facial expression showed she didn't know what to make of me, and I didn't clear things up. We climbed the stairs to our bedroom and got ready for bed.

After my ablutions, I got in, turned my back on her and turned off the light on my bedstand.

"Goodnight, Robbie," she said in a conciliatory voice.

Pretending I was asleep already, I ignored her.

—

The following morning, I got to work. Lawyer, bank, credit cards, phone, cars, all taken care of.

Friday afternoon, I left early and went all out primping myself. New hairstyle, clothes, manicure, car wash, the works.

I waited until she was in the shower before I emerged and sat, waiting for her in the living room. When she emerged from our bedroom, I hit Send.

The timing was perfect. The moment she stepped on the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the front door bell rang. Since she was the closest, she opened the door.

A nervous looking young man stood and stared at her. "Are you Brenda Wyndham?"

"Yes, I am. How can I help you?"

Handing her a tan envelope, he said, "You have been served," and left as quickly as he could.

Shocked, Brenda ripped open the envelope. "Is this what... Robbie Wyndham, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Following your wishes, dear. You want to go on a date with your buddy George? Go. But not as my wife. Now you can have dinner with whomever you want, dance with any guy who takes your fancy and sleep over with whoever revs your motor. Have fun," I said as I opened the door.

"Wait, where the hell are you going dressed like that?"

I was dressed to all the nines I had. Suit, button down shirt, lace up shoes—I clean up good, even if I have to say so myself. "I no longer owe you any explanation, but since you asked, I am following your lead. Darlene is expecting me to pick her up for dinner at Carlo's. Don't know where you're going—we'll try to avoid you and George, but this being a small town, who knows? Don't wait up for me."

"Darlene? Darlene Bronson with the tits from hell?" Brenda's kryptonite was her B-cup size.

"Oh, please. Who has a fragile ego now? Yes, that Darlene. When she heard you were abandoning me tonight, she immediately volunteered to coddle my fragile male ego with her cushions from heaven." Brenda hated Darlene, the 'big-bosomed lady with the Dutch accent,' to quote Rod Stewart. Men, as my dear wife now discovered, are not the only ones with fragile egos. The thought that I'd found a willing date with bigger boobs, at such short notice, apparently steamed Brenda's clams something fierce.

Torment showed on her face. You'd think good sense would compel her to call off her ill-advised date, but you'd be wrong. Her pride was going to cost her, not to mention her fragile female ego. Had already cost her, as the envelope on the coffee table attested.

My date with Darlene, the DD queen, turned out fantastic. After-dinner dancing was the perfect warmup. Knowing that guys loved ogling her, she shook her bazookas with abandon. Slow dances were another face of heaven.

I don't know what time Brenda got home, because Darlene cushioned my fragile male ego the whole night long.