“This is my art.”
That’s funny, I was positive it was some sort of Rorschach inkblot test.
“What’s it supposed to be? I mean – that’s an animal obviously. A snake. And the other thing is its lair. Do snakes have lairs?”
“I am not sure they are called lairs.”
Perhaps snakes didn’t have lairs. Oh God, I’m on thin ice. Babbling. This ‘art’ is definitely going to stitch me up. I’m already teetering on the edge of celibacy and have no interest in religion. I desperately need something to resurrect our sex life, and my erection doesn’t have the best track record. I need to solve this inkblot puzzle. Absolve her of any doubt that I understand what she was thinking. Not that anyone should ever understand what anyone else is thinking – where would be the intrigue in that? I’d never say anything wrong. There’d never be a fight. There’d never be anxiety. I’d know the correct time to pop the question, and when to pre-emptively break up.
“So, do you know what it is at all?” Her face was screwed up on one side as if looking through a telescope.
“Well it’s quite obvious. It’s a snake being forced into a hole or lair or whatever, because a boulder is chasing it.”
“We need to break up.”
“What!? That’s honestly what I think it is.”
“You have no idea.”
“It’s a whole heap of ink.”
“It’s someone giving someone else a blow job. A blow job that the other someone is not going to get, especially not now.”
Was I that someone?
“Am I that someone?”
“You were.”
“And let me guess, this thing is post-modern, interpretive? I am meant to know what it really means though, because I am meant to be in your head. And if I really knew what was is in your head, I’d solve the puzzle and resurrect our sex life?”
“Correct.”
“Well, then. Thank you for having the foresight to call it off. It shortcut the whole ordeal by five minutes. Now get the fuck out of my garage.”
