We'll call him . . . Jim

Suze didn't know her uncle. Her vagabond aunt had just married him so many months ago, and she knew only that he called her aunt a bloody cunt when he was angry. Apparently this was acceptable where he was from, another country. Living in a rental in a faraway cheap town after years of failed attempts at artistic endeavors, her aunt seemed mostly happy with him there too now. But this day, otherwise sunny, bright, windless and pleasant, he, we'll call him Jim, came into town to have car repairs performed. He called Suze late in the day saying that the repairs wouldn't be finished today, so he'd just spend the night at her place. She was very pleasant on the phone, then hung up and the mental gears started turning so fast she could hear them clank and complain. Situation number one: Suze lived the pleasant solitary life of an artist, without a TV, enjoying actually having conversations with friends when they came over and listening to music alone as entertainments. An entire evening alone with Jim, the "bloody cunt" man, would mean an awful lot of conversation. Hours of it. Bonding. Then making him breakfast, acting the hostess on the spur of the moment. Situation two: her own parents were arriving from the east coast the very next day for a week-long visit. She had just made the guest bedroom up with clean sheets, and her washing machine was broken. Preparing for a successful parental visit typically required an evening of calm reflection and preparation for letting things roll off her like water off a duck's back. Feeling that an evening with  Jim, the bloody cunt man, was sure to lead nowhere good and could possibly foment the destruction of her mental balance for a solid week or more, she concocted a plan. Shortly afterward, she showed up at my house with a face full of makeup, hair pulled back in a bun, and a bundle of clothes under her arm.

Me: I don't get it. You trying out for a ballet dancer?

Her: I told him he was welcome to stay, of course. But I myself couldn't stay. I myself had agreed to work for a catering company that evening. I myself had to get together my black and white catering outfit and go serve canapés. So he was welcome to make himself at home alone in my TVless house and occupy himself alone for hours and hours until bedtime, but I was very sorry but I simply would not be able to keep him company. . . I went through all the motions of showering and making myself up, asking him if he thought these black pants looked professional enough, you know, adding all sorts of made-up details about the wedding I was catering. I got so into it, it was scary. Then I drove around town for twenty minutes wondering where to go, feeling like a monumental fool, and ended up here. 

Me: So . . . what are you going to do now?

Her: Want to go out for a drink?

Me: Why not?

The phone rings. Its Jim, the uncle. I bang pots and pans together to simulate the background sounds of a busy kitchen. He tells Suze he guessed he would just have his wife come pick him up tonight and come back into town tomorrow for his ailing car. But thanks anyway. She let out a colossal sigh of relief that could have wrapped around my throat and strangled me for joy. 

Me: Still want that drink?

Her: Hell no. Just want to wash this crap off my face and sleep off this lie. My God, I can't believe it worked!