Left this note for you. I hope you didn’t mind my breaking into your house. Well our house… once upon a time anyway. Anyway, it’s me, Rob. I’m sorry that I had to break the front door to get in, but I guess that’s what happens when you change locks, right? My point is that I hope you didn’t think I was a complete stranger breaking into your house– hopefully you didn’t get traumatized or, worse, pissed off, before you get to reading this letter. It’s just your estranged husband who broke your double door and I think, crushed something (did you get a new puppy after we separated?)
Listen, honeypies, I’d love to get back together. I know we had some rough times. But when I lie in bed all these nights without you, all I could think of was your sweet face. Well I say bed, but it was really wherever I met up with my lady companions. Let me tell you, nowadays, for twenty bucks it’s just either/or– ironing board with passable looks, or Pamela Anderson body with… well, Pamela Anderson face. So really, when I was with those prostitutes, I was really with you.
I’m sorry for all I’ve done to you. I really am. Have your machete wounds healed yet? I swear I’ve thrown every one of my weapons out. Well, except our, ahem, weapons, if you know what I mean. You used to get such a kick out of using them. I still remember our safeword, honeybun, do you? Okay, it was Ronald McDonald. But my point is, I’m a changed man. I only channel my anger towards good uses now. Like joining the Tea Party. The fact that there is a wrinkle in my shirt that you’ve ironed does not– I swear on my dying nephew’s grave– does not give me the right to pour a pot of boiling coffee over your head. This much I’ve learned.
I really want to live here again. Can you forgive me? I look around now, and all I see are the possibilities of our wonderful, future lives. Except for the shattered door, of course, but you’ll get around to fixing that, won’t you, sweetshortcakes? I vow right here, right now, that I will respect you. I will respect your right as a person, your right as a woman (so is that half a person– I’m kidding! Three weeks out of the month you are a person, I knew that.) But most of all, I will respect your right as a wife. Because you will be remarrying me, won’t you? Anyway, I think I hear sirens (at least whatever it is under the door has stopped whimpering). Call me, sugarstrudel. I’ve left my number on the kitchen table, and also a little surprise for you (hint– you like protein?).
Much love, your molassesquiche,
Ps- Sorry for getting snot on your thongs– I’ve been having a terrible cold lately.