The Depressed American

He’d dragged her down to the local Italian restaurant because he was less likely to be stabbed to death in public. He also knew that she didn’t have the stamina to go on a spree because she had the muscle tone of a dead man’s penis. Down the stairs because this place was underground and the depressed American cooking like a madman gave him a smile when he saw him at the entrance. Red stains on white and he wondered if there was blood mixed in with the tomato.
We came here last month. I don’t know why we’re here again, she said.
Well, it’ll be the last time for you, you WHORE, he said in whispered mumbles of the likes heard in that place between dreaming and awake.
Did you say something?
No, he said and they made their way to a table by the window.
There was so much glass on his left hand side and he wondered whether she’d smash it and try to decapitate him with a shard or just aim for a vein or artery. No. That was ridiculous. She was too weak to lift the chair to smash the window in the first place. Forks would be the main enemy today. She ordered the salad and of course it came with a fucking fork. He ordered the pizza as planned, not because he liked pizza but because the plate it came on could be thrown as a makeshift circular blade if the situation called for it.
So, when are we buying a house? she said.
We?
Yes, that’s what I said. We.
Well, you don’t work, so it will be me who buys the goddamn thing, he said.
Do you really have to curse like that?
Yes, he said and he watched the stupid bitch stab at a lettuce leaf. No wonder she had trouble lifting shit. She’d stopped cooking three days after moving in because it tired her out too much. The weight of cutlery was simply too much for her delicate and emaciated limbs to endure. Her vagina was also dry.
Well, I don’t like it, she said.
And I don’t like you, he said at a frequency that only dogs could hear.
You really should stop mumbling. You sound like a fag, she said.
The depressed American approached their table with the hesitancy of an ex-lover or local pervert as if to say: Hi, it’s been a while. You look great.
Here’s some garlic bread, said the depressed American.
Thanks, he said.
Well, I best be getting back to the kitchen.
No problem.
What’s his problem? she said.
Who said he has a problem?
Oh for fuck’s sake, do you have to be so argumentative?
Look.
NO, YOU LOOK!! she said.
It’s over.
I AM SICK OF THESE SHITTY RESTAURANTS AND THE BULLSHIT LIFESTYLE I HAVE TO LIVE!! AND FOR WHAT?!!
It’s over, he said again.
What?
It’s over, he said for the third time and deep down he made plans to beat the shit out of anyone that said stupid shit like three’s a charm or third time lucky to him at any point in his life from that moment forward.
For a moment she said nothing but her eyes seemed to shift further apart. Little bits of saliva began to gather at the corners of her mouth and strands of hair stood up on their own accord. Not every strand. Just a few and they looked like threads of fairy floss or cotton candy or whatever the fuck that shit is called. She tried to talk to him in French.
NO YOU DON’T YOU GODDAMN BITCH. NOT TODAY!!! he said.
She picked up a lettuce leaf and threw it at him like a man would throw something left-handed. It stuck to his forehead and was followed with nineteen croutons.
You’ll have to do better than that, he said and ate everything from off his face.
She picked up the fork that still had remnants of caesar dressing on it and lunged at his heart because that was what he had broken within her in that dingy Italian restaurant that was run by a depressed American with possible blood stains on his clothing. He parried the fork with the garlic bread and punched her in the side of the head.
OH MY GOD I JUST WANT TO BREAK UP! he said as she clawed her way back to her feet, using the table as support. It was tough though. She momentarily hung there like a rock climber, but there was no magic powder to keep her hands dry. He dropped the garlic bread and like a pussy was blinded by pussy and thought about helping her up. Everyone around them just kept on eating because no one likes to acknowledge it when crazy people are fighting. Then she grabbed the plate and threw it at him like a ninja throws one of the star things. Where had this sudden burst of strength come from? Had she been lying about being weak for their entire relationship? It was too late to answer any of these pointless questions now because the plate cut off his right arm at the shoulder and he was now destined to throw like a retard forever. Blood pissed out of him like confessions out of slut after a few drinks with the girls.
You don’t get to break up with me, she said.
He fell to the ground and she stood over him.
It’s over, she said, but he could no longer speak.
YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT IT’S OVER, said the depressed American from behind and as she turned around he fired the shotgun he’d brought with him. It hit her in the mid-section and blew the top half of her body through the front window that he’d been so hesitant to sit near. The rest of her fell to the ground in chunks and mixed with the blood she had relieved him of with the plate.
I’m really getting tired of guys using this place to breakup with crazy bitches, said the depressed American.
I’m sorry, he mouthed in a way that not even an expert lip reader would be able to decipher. It was basically just his lips moving. Some might say quivering.Get this motherfucker an ambulance. My bolognese is a dick hair away from burning, said the depressed American and he wandered back to the kitchen.

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