He was 1.5 hours late. I had cooked a pasta dish with some of the artichoke garlic cream I'd brought back from Italy. I also made a tomato, mozzarella and basil salad.
He wasn't here to eat it, so I watched Tracy Ullman and ate it in the dark.
When he came home (without calling), I tried my best not to do the girl sulk, but he picked up on it.
"I made you dinner," I said.
"Thanks, but I never eat after work," he said.
I thought we discussed this all last night, but apparently I was back to my old ways of mixed up communication with men.
"Just know you can't ever rely on me," he said, turning the TV to baseball.
If only all men were this upfront about their inability to make us happy.
The pasta sucks. And so far, so does my impression of Mr. Beer Man. It was so much better when I only saw him for dinner and "dessert." We never had to live like real people do. And at least I could always rely on him for reservations.
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