The Three Times Oscar Left Me
“This is unsustainable,” he said. “I have to think of my career.”
I knocked and knocked and knocked on his lid, but he wouldn’t let me in.
“But I’ve been trying to make you miserable,” I said. “I’ve done everything: jealous pouting, baseless accusations, shit-talking behind your back, snooping on your phone. What is it going to take?”
His head hung over the rim of his can, his eyelids at half-mast. “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s no good. I’m still too happy because I know you’re trying to be as awful as possible. On purpose — for us.”
He looked toward the soundstage as the faint opening jingle drifted over to us: Sunny day, sweeping the clouds away…
I reached for his scraggly green hand, but he snatched it away. I took a calming breath as he snapped his mouth shut and lowered his woolly brown eyebrows — trying, I knew, to gin up the rage that had made him famous.
Then he slumped. “It’s not working. I’m just — I feel too good when you’re around.”
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