Fuck Me Boots

They were Size 6 Women’s Wide. Black leather, shiny, an inch of platform on the bottom to make her look taller. These puppies were supposed to zip halfway up her calves and were about thirty-eight inches around.

My wife dangled the leather boot by the zipper. “Whose fuck-me-boots?”

I started the car.

“It’s big enough for a hippopotamus."

“Can we be civil?” I reversed out of the driveway, trying not to make eye contact.

My wife laughed, unamused. It was a furious chuckle.

In the booth at Olive Garden, she stood the giant fat-girl-boot on the table. My wife scooted her bowl of zuppa tuscano in front of the boot, remarking that the soup was for my girlfriend. Nothing for my wife, but the boot ordered extra appetizers, extra entrees, and made the waitress grate an entire block of cheese on each item.

I ate what little of my meal I could stomach, watching the boot’s food get cold. “You’re upset.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. I’ll tell you what you are.” She took off her ring, eyeing the fake diamond like she suddenly knew–or she’d always known. “You’re a cheapskate. No dessert for your date?”

“Cheapskate! I just bought a smorgasbord for a fucking shoe!”

“Oh, right. Just a cheater, then. And a liar. Never cheap, though.” The ring plunked into the thick layer of cream on top of the cold zuppa, tumbling with cold potatoes and wrapped into slimy kale. “I hope she was worth it.”

She took the boot and stormed out, leaving me fishing through frigid zuppa with my fingers.