By God Henry, That Woman Is So Obsequious
by Jenny Robbins
I peeked through wicker blinds half expecting to see last night’s Tinder date hiding near my car. It had been a night of debauchery, carnal, blood and tequila. I should have left after I came the third time.
I limped around the bedroom in search of my phone. I was still getting acquainted with my four wall arrangement, the latest in a slew of room rentals.
Roman
Hey beautiful. I’m coming over!
I cringed and frantically texted back:
Me
NO.
We’d been on two dates and he already asked me to move in. “Tinder’s the way to go,” everyone said. “No strings attached.”
At 27, I had spent the last decade in-and-out of serious relationships and had luckily missed the boat on the dating app world. I preferred to meet men in the street where I told friends, “ahem, the real connections are made.” I hadn’t had sex since leaving my husband seven months earlier. Partly because I was selective, mostly because it pleased me to suffer.
After a bout of ex-cons, one of whom offered to show me a stolen zebra that lived in his friend’s yard, dating apps started to sound half decent. The time had come for me to put dignity and guilt aside in favour of a good old fashioned dick slap.
Enter Roman: 36, entrepreneur with a surfer body and ‘bring home to mama’ demeanour. Not my type. But his hobbies were “racing boats, building bikes and lifting weights,” so I figured, let’s boogie.
He parked his motorcycle at my place and we went for coffee. Rookie move, now he knew where I lived. His hand dug into my arm while he said things like: “life is short!” and “I love traveling!” I wished he would stop talking altogether and just keep digging.
He took out his phone, “I wrote down a ton of stuff about you from our conversation! Your interests and things you said. It’s epic! Look.” I hadn't told him much except that I taught English online to South Koreans and had spent the afternoon in a hot tub with a floating shrimp ring. I wondered at what point do I drop that my mom’s dead, I have only fond memories of smoking crack and I have a black hair that despite plucking continues to protrude out of my nipple with the vigor of a thousand Scottsmen?
The next day he texted me:
Roman
Good morning, beautiful. What are you doing tonight? I’d love to cuddle with you.
Me
I wanna fuckk.
Roman
Come over! We’ll party! You can do laundry in the morning.
Boom. Just saved ten bucks.
It was after 10pm when I arrived ready to do the deed and have a gay old time. As soon as I walked in he pushed me against the wall, pulled my hair and bit my neck. So far so good.
His house looked like an IKEA showroom. His profile said he “loved to take long walks” with his dog. There was no sign an animal had ever lived there. So he had secrets, that didn’t bother me. He poured us tequila and said “I’m not emotionally ready for sex yet.” I laughed, tossed the liquor back straight and put my laundry in the washer.
All his stories began with “In Thailand” and ended with “it was epic.” He put on a pair of clear plastic glasses, “these don’t have a prescription, I just like who I am when I wear them.” I really outdid myself with this one.
He went through a six-pack of PBR and told me his plans of buying a yacht, traveling the world and starting a family. I went through a six-pack of Stella and thought about how I used to live on Madison Avenue and had recently destroyed a family.
He moved me to the living room, kissed me and whispered, “thank you.” I cringed but ah what the hell, I needed to be broken in like a new pair of Doc Martens.
He lift me up and dropped me on the couch. His biting got more intense. “Dude, I know I’m delicious but I’m not that delicious.”
He laughed, stroked my cheek and stared intensely into my eyes, “you’re beautiful.” Gross. But my dad raised me to never be a quitter so I squeezed his bicep and repeated the mantra: there’s a dick at the end of this tunnel and it’s probably good.
We were almost there when he jumped off me, “you need more protein!”
In the kitchen he tore open a packet of powder and poured it into a plastic thermos. He dumped in milk and tap water, sloshed it around and held it out towards me. “Uhhh, I‘m not going to drink that.” He began to chug. Was I in an Axe commercial? When he slammed the empty thermos on the counter I questioned whether I still had a sober chance to drive home. Concluding that my life was now in the hands of fate, I sat up on the kitchen counter, helped myself to more tequila and watched him. He appeared to be coming undone.
Grabbing the tiny amount of skin over his six-pack abdominals he yanked the flesh outwards, “I’m fat, see?!” With a sigh he fell over the sink. “I bought my ex-wife implants because she was unhappy with her breasts.” He looked up at me helplessly, “they turned out to just be bigger versions of the breasts she hated.” I laughed so hard that I slid off the counter and onto the floor.
Immediately he was on top of me and the show was back on. Until his teeth clamped down on my stomach so hard I had to push him off. Unhinged he grinned and pointed to the bruise already forming. “See look! Now there’s a timestamp of that moment we had together!”
An image flashed in my mind of his ex-wife dead at the bottom of a staircase, him standing over her giant uneven breasts: “this is our moment together!”
While I contemplated his danger potential he left the room again. I thought of an idea for a dating show where contestants get to call an ex as a reference. I wondered what my reviews would say. “She left me cold for fantasies that would never come true.”
He returned with a long fur coat and draped it around me. I felt like a queen with the silk and fox fur against my skin. I put on Frank Sinatra and strutted around clinking the ice in my glass. He got a phone call and I stepped outside for some fresh air and solo conversation.
His downstairs tenant pulled into the driveway. I hadn’t had a cigarette in seven days and she smelled like Belmonts. Standing with her under the starry sky with nothing but a fur coat on smoking a Belly I thought to myself, by God I deserve this. We could see him inside the house looking for me. Lights turned on and off as he moved through the rooms. I imagined him getting confused, irritated, then mad. I grinned, “you’re gonna hear me get in trouble later.”
I crawled into his bed. He joined me. Crazy paid off. It paid off double time.
The last thing I heard before falling asleep was: “let’s go outside! I want to watch you drive my motorcycle around the yard!”
I woke up to him staring at me. He whispered, “you’re not going to hurt me are you?” My body was so sore I could barely move.
“The downstairs tenants haven’t slept yet.” Had he even slept yet? “Come here, cuddle with me.” I hustled out of the sheets and got dressed. Suddenly he was beside me. “How many other renters are in the house? How many floors are there? I’m curious because I love architecture! You should just move in here, it would save you money! I could stay out back in the loft I’m building!”
He followed me down the hall. “I have a list of words I want to start using in my vocabulary, want to hear them?”
“Sure.” I dug my heel into leather shoes and went through a mental checklist of my belongings. He rattled off fancy words followed by their definitions. When he said “obsequious: slave-like obedience,” I faltered.
I asked him to repeat it twice, each time his voice got deeper.
I could stay, I could totally stay.
Obsequious sounded kinda funky with all them syllables. A groove played in my head and I added lyrics: HeN-ry that wom-an is-so ob se -qui -ous…
I picked up my laundry bag and stepped outside, “okay bye-bye now.”
Later that day he called twice. I didn’t pick up.
Roman
I want to see you! I’m on my way over!
Me
No. You are not.
It occurred to me that he could very well come over anytime he pleased. I wanted to block his number but he was a wild card. I’d have to wean him off slowly.
Roman
Good morning, beautiful!
Roman
Good morning, beautiful!
Roman
Good morning, beautiful!
Roman
Good morning, beautiful!
Roman
Good morning, m’lady!
Enough.
ME
Sorry we’re on two different pages. I have a lot of goals I need to focus on and suddenly a ton of writing to do. I’m not looking for anything serious.
Roman
All I want is to pick you up and support you in everything that you do! I love being with you!!
I don’t need your support and I don’t want you to pick me up and if you’re going to fuck me in the ass at least call me a slut first.
He got creative.
Roman
I’m getting published!!
Me
What’s the magazine?
Roman
Not sure on the details!! I’m just working on the editor’s notes before it goes to print!! I could hardly believe it when the email came in!
Me
What’s the editor’s name?
Roman
Ugh. I’d have to look it up! How was your weekend?! I spent mine in your neighbourhood! What are you doing?!
Would I have to leave town for the second damn time this month?
He disappeared and returned again.
Roman
Good morning beautiful! Just rented a car for the weekend thinking of going on some epic drives! Interested?!”
Was that where he would toss my body?
If I’m going to be disposed of in a rental car it better be a fucking Cadillac.
I clipped hot pink dog mace to my backpack and shared my phone’s GPS with a friend.
Days passed.
Nothing.
I looked at my body in the mirror, the bruises were fading.
I reread his last message:
All I want is to pick you up and support you in everything that you do! I love being with you!!
I had waited my whole life to hear words like that.
I left the blinds up and walked slower to my car.
Where was he?
Why wouldn't he kill me?
About the Author: Jenny Robbins comes from the good tracks of a dive town. Her highest level of education is an ‘Advanced Diploma,’ a certificate that doesn’t even exist outside of Canada and she may have lost a copy of it. On any given day she might be writing her memoir on the walls, sharing too much on stage for the sake of a laugh, whispering sweet nothings to a drum set or filming some harebrained idea.