I Can Explain

I didn't expect to see him on Sunday.  Had I known he'd be sitting there, eating humus and pita in that odd little dive on Ventura Boulevard, I would've worn the other pair.  I know how he gets.  He's the jealous type; always has been.  Suspicious of others in his line of work.  The wind kicked up, and I thought, "Oh no, not him.  Not today."  I moved quickly toward my car, but he saw me anyway.  Got up from the table, left his lady there, and came outside to greet me with a hug and biting sideways glance.  "So," he said, "how are you? Why haven't you stopped by?" "I've been sick," I said.  "Ah," he said, eyeballing me again.  I started to sweat.  "Come in, have a seat, have some food."  "I can't," I said, looking for an out.  "I'm due home."  He shrugged.  He knew what that meant.  "How is he?"  "Good.  Except -- " I stopped myself.  "Except what?" he asked.  "His glasses are lopsided."  "He needs to come in and see me."  "He will."  "When?" "Soon."  "9:30 Tuesday is good for me."  "It's not good for him."  "Tell him to call me."  "I will." 

We looked at each other.  The tension was palpable, the air thick with betrayal.  "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he asked.  I played innocent.  "Notice what?"  "Those," he said, pointing to my glasses.  My heart started pounding.  "I can explain," I said.  "Go ahead."  I started babbling.  "I wear them when I dance, when I work out."  "But they're not mine.  I don't sell Club Monaco. I've never sold Club Monaco."  "I got them at Lenscrafters."  He shook his head in despair.  "Why?"  he asked.  "How could you?"  "They're cheaper than yours." "You get what you pay for, don't you?"  "I'm sorry," I said.  "I didn't mean to hurt you." "I'll survive," he said.  "Well," I said, "I better go."  "Go then," he said.  "You'll come by the store soon.  I have something nice for you."  "Paul Smith?  I love those. I wear them every day." "What I have is better than Paul Smith.  I designed them myself, with you in mind. The stems have tiny jewels that match your eyes."  "Emeralds?" I asked.  He smiled.  "You love to spoil me, don't you, Franco."  "I do," he said. "It is my pleasure."  

He leaned in and we did the European air kiss maneuver, one side and then the other, and said our goodbyes.  And as I got into my car, hoping he'd forgive my Lenscrafters lapse, I pictured him alone in his studio, conjuring glasses perfect for my little punim.  What some men won't do to make me happy. The light changed and I flung my Club Monacos out the window.  I drove home in a total blur, vowing to never cheat on Franco again with another eyewear provider.  I'd rather go broke, out of loyalty, than upset the man who knows what looks good on my face.