Purple Lips

It was February, 2002. I should've taken heed when Aneita invited me to a drag show for our first date, but the second date was worse. I invited her over to my place for dinner. She showed up an hour late. Bad.

But she brought a bottle of wine and a video. Good. I immediately served dinner and she proceeded to eat nothing. Bad. In the 40 minutes it took me to drink a half of a glass of the wine, she killed the bottle. Very bad.

We adjourned to the den to watch the video she'd brought (her favorite, her "this is the best movie ever made and I can't beieve you haven't seen it" video), Harold and Maude. She proceeded to talk the entire way through the movie -- setting up each scene before it happened and causing me to miss most of the dialogue. The credits rolled and she asked what I thought of the movie because, again, it's her favorite and she's seen it 11 times. I told her that it looked like I missed a pretty good movie. I took this opportunity to suggest putting on some music, but she grabbed my arm and said, "No, don't. We need to talk."

"We do?" It was our second date. What could we possibly NEED to talk about? For the following hour and 45 minutes she regaled me with a moderately dysfunctional life story, interrupting any dialogue that I tried to create. The last hour of her vinous monologue involved me staring at a chair across the room. I gave up on nodding, muttering affirmatively, or actually making any noises at all. I tried to give up on breathing. For something to do I held my breath for as long as I could, and counted Mississippi’s. It seemed to me that my underformed adolescent lungs had greater capacity. My brother and I would dive the twelve feet to the bottom of my grandfather’s pool, hold on to the drain to keep from floating up, and then jet to the surface just before blacking out. I’m pretty sure I could hold my breath for a minute and a half back then. Now, I was only making it to 39 seconds. My thoughts traveled to my ex, Jane, and I wondered if she had experienced any of this sort of tragedy prior to moving in with the man she would marry.

Aneita only stopped talking once to go to the bathroom. I stretched out on the couch and slung my arm over my face – the universal sign for Holy Shit I’m Tired and You Need to Go. The silence was wonderful. I would have loved to hear some Fabulous Thunderbirds, or some Faces, but my legs were melting into the couch, and sprinting to the stereo to preempt another hour of Aneita’s saga seemed a little too taxing. Maybe she’d take the hint? Maybe the haze of wine was lifting from her eyes by now and she’d be able to see how tired I am and then she’d—

“Iiiieeee!!!”
Scream?

Aneita burst through the bathroom door and stood over me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at her face. "While I was in the bathroom my lips turned purple," she said, sort of accusatorily.

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to be the funniest thing I'd heard in years. "Think it might have something to do with the bottle of merlot you drank?"

"No. It's not the wine. That's never happened before. They turned purple in the bathroom. Just now."

"Aneita, they were purple when you went in there. It's from the merlot. They've been purple half the night."

She folded her arms and shook her blonde head defiantly, "No. Nuh-uh. Your bathroom turned my lips purple,” she frowned, and then pondered, “How weird."

"And your teeth? They turned purple in the bathroom just now?"

Aneita jaunted back to the mirror. "Oh my God! My teeth are purple too! This is so weird. What's causing this? What’s happening?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. I'll call a plumber in the morning." I flung myself dramatically across the couch, being sure to bury my face once more in the crook of my arm. Surely she would—

Remove my socks?

I peered out from under my arm. Aneita had slipped her bony butt between my feet and the end of the couch, and pulled off my right sock. I began to search for the words to address this, because “what the hell you loony bitch” seemed a bit harsh, but she immediately began massaging my bare foot, and shortly all willpower slipped away. Well, maybe just for a minute, but then she’s gotta go.

I began to relax. It felt good. I hadn’t had my feet rubbed in years, and the effect was so soothing, so comforting, so—

“IIIIEEOOWWW!!!”

This time it was me who screamed. I whipped my arm off my face just in time to catch her pulling my toes from her mouth. She began rubbing them vigorously, raised her eyebrows and shrugged, “What?”
“You bit my toes, that’s what!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brian,” she smiled and continued rubbing.
“I saw my toes coming out of your mouth, a split second after I felt your teeth clamp down on them. THAT’s what I’m talking about.”
She shrugged again like I was daft, but kept rubbing. It felt good – the rubbing, that is. The pain in my little bones subsided, and I decided to let her make it up to me through a really good foot massage. I’d been single and unsuccessful in the dating world for so long, who knew how long it might be before a woman would perform any body work on me, much less a foot rub that’s… hmm… kind of sensual, really. Sensual, and sort of—

“IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

I have no qualms in telling you that the scream that came out of my mouth was not the bellow of a man in pain, perhaps wounded in combat or while chopping down large trees, but rather the startled shriek of a six year old girl who's just seen a spider in her bed. I sat bolt upright, in a “V”, my nose only about a foot and a half away from Aneita's powerful jaws. This time she didn’t have time to remove my foot from her mouth, but smiled apologetically, baring the teeth that were still sunk into my petrified little piggies. I jerked my foot from her jaw and examined it. There would definitely be a bone bruise. I searched for the words to approach this with her and abruptly demanded, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrugged.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’m just playing.”
“Yeah, well you play rough. That fucking hurt.”
“Didn’t if feel good at all?”
“Yes, until the part where you tried to EAT MY FOOT.” I sat up and yanked on my sock and shoes. She sprung on me, catching me off balance from the side, and momentarily pinning me to the couch. I maintained the look of a man in peril. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, and I had half the mind to give it a good chomp. Instead I bench pressed her off of me and, aware of the fury of a woman scorned, delicately said, “Look, Aneita, it’s late.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning on a work night. I wanted her out of there two hours prior. Even if I had decided I’d like to sleep with her, I would have still wanted her out by midnight.

Since being single, I'd learned the joys of freestyle sleeping. Sometimes I would lay spread eagle across the bed, just to see if I can hang off all four corners at once, but most times I preferred to sleep at a diagonal, splitting the bed in two like a sliced grilled cheese sandwich. In fact, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded like a good idea. Sleeping sounded like a good idea. Everything sounded like a good idea with the exception of Aneita staying one moment longer.

I stood up, “It’s really late, and I have to be at work very early. And I have a proposal due. It’s for two million dollars. And it could cost me my job. I’m sure you understand.” I didn’t care if she understood. I grabbed her coat and hat and presented them to her. She looked confused. Perhaps later she’d look mad. I didn’t care. In moments I wouldn’t have to see it anyway.
“But, I need the—“
“Here’s your video.” I had it in my hand. “It was interesting. You’re… interesting.” She was still buttoning her coat and I had the storm door wide open, letting in a purging gush of icy night air. She stepped onto the porch, still confused, and looked at me for some reassurance. I smiled, “Well, goodnight,” and swung the door shut.

She forced her hand around the door for a moment and stammered, “Will, uh… will—“

“I’ll call you,” I nodded. She released the door and I waited the obligatory thirty seconds for her to get off the porch so I could shut the light out and block the memories.

Yeah, I’ll call you: I’ll call you Crazy Toe-Biting Bitch when I mention this to my friends.

But I was wrong. She was henceforth remembered as Purple Lips.