The Art of Love (6 page)

Putting my hand over the mouthpiece, I say in an offhand way, “
You know what's kind of funny? In the restaurant, you said your phone's battery was dead. But it seems fine now.”

Elliot opens his mouth to launch some kind of protest, but I put my finger back in the air to delay him again. Someone has picked up on the other end of the line. “Elliot
?” chirps a peppy female voice.

Elliot is starting to panic as he realizes his giant gaffe, but I don’t care. I’ve got him right where I want him—over the coals and soon to be roasting. “Hi,” I say in an extra sparkly, friendly voice
. “I found this phone and I don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Oh, I think you found my boyfriend’s phone,” the woman replies with a complete lack of suspicion.

I feel a glancing blow down the side of my face, and I realize, too late, that it’s Elliot smacking the phone out of my hand. It bounces across the ground.

It’s my turn to be caught by surprise. “
Hey! What the hell?” I demand. “Why’d you do that?”

Elliot regains his composure, lifts his chin, and says, “
Because I wanted your complete attention.” Dropping to one knee, he reaches for my hand and says, “Sue, will you marry me?”

I am absolutely gob smacked. Over the course of my life, I have, from time to time, daydreamed about how the man that will one day be my husband will propose. To be honest, I’d always visualized a more tropical setting. And maybe a little champagne. But I never in a million years fantasized that the proposal would be a desperate ploy by some schlub to escape being caught cheating.

I gape at him for several seconds. He’s really reversed the tables, and it’s now my brain’s turn to play catch-up. I can’t think of what to say. My head is crowded with words, but I can’t remember how to get any of them out of my mouth. So instead, I yank my hand out of his, dart back into my apartment, and slam the door.

As I’m frantically throwing the locks, I can hear Elliot getting to his feet. Through the door he calls, “
Was that a yes?”

Chapter 6

I am so insanely angry that I actually kick the tacky gift basket that is my supposed birthday present. The bottles and jars of foul-smelling crap burst from the brightly colored cellophane and distribute themselves around the room. It turns out that kicking something in anger will also do some damage to your foot, so I let out a yelp and limp around in a circle while silently cursing. “Why am I such an idiot?”

There was an architectural trend during the eighties in Chicago, and possibly throughout the Midwest for all I know, where apartment buildings and condos were built with no interior hallways. When I head out my door, I’m actually on a covered walkway outside. In a way, it’s nice because I have a big bay window in my living room, and in a way, it sucks because it’s frequently raining and/or snowing in Chicago, and the wind can really whip down the open passageways.

The bay window also makes it possible for creepy ex-boyfriends to think they still have access to my condo after I’ve locked them out. I can hear Elliot out there tentatively tapping on the glass. Fortunately, I have the curtains drawn. “Sue?” Elliot calls. “Come on. We have to talk about this,” he says in his most placating voice as if I am just being unreasonable.

“
Go away!” I hear myself shouting. “I don't want to talk to you. Ever!”

“
Come on,” he wheedles. “Don't be like that. Just tell me what you want.”

This request enrages me so much it’s almost laughable. How to explain to a clueless idiot like Elliot what I want? Gee, let’s think. To be treated nicely? That would be a start. To be with a guy who shows me a little consideration? That would also be helpful. To be with a guy who is actually a grownup and not a baby-man attempting to be ironic in an ill fitting T-shirt? I know that sounds like a stretch, but there’s got to be one or two of them left in the wild.

But there’s no way to explain what I want to Elliot. The idea of being considerate of someone else doesn’t even show up on his radar. He actually thinks that he treats me well and that I should be grateful he’s dating me. I’m so angry, I’m trembling as I rip back the curtain and glare at him through the glass. “What I want?” I sputter, spit literally flying from my mouth. “What I want? There's no way in hell you could even come close to giving me what I want!”

I can tell by the look on Elliot’s idiot face that he’s about to say something stupid, so I cut him off by saying, “
But I'll tell you what I don't want.”

This makes the jerk widen his eyes a little as he asks, “
What?”

I snatch a heavy jar of cream off the floor by my feet and fling it at the window. It’s my own damn condo, so it’s an incredibly stupid thing to do, but that doesn’t stop me. I guess I throw it with some force because the window smashes and giant sheets of glass come crashing down. Elliot leaps back, almost flipping himself backward over the walkway railing in the process.

“I don't want peppermint foot cream!” I bellow. “Why the hell would I want my feet to smell like peppermints?”

Elliot is so surprised he’s cringing, not even bright enough to get out of the way of a tornado. His stupidity enrages me even more, so I grab a tube of something off the rug. “
And I don't want peach apricot scrub!” I whip it at him. “It stinks!”

As the tube speeds toward him, he tries to deflect the scrub with his hand. It explodes in mid-air, splattering him with goop. “
Jesus, Sue! Chill!”

Seeing my cheating ex with apricot scrub dripping from his lopsided Afro only incites me to pelt him with more toiletries. “
And just so you know,” I say, scooping a large jar off the ground, “lilac bath salts smell like someone barfed up a birthday cake!”

I let the jar fly, and it bounces off his giant melon of a head. “
Stop it, Sue! That hurts!” Elliot shrieks. He’s not angry. He’s not trying to defend himself. He’s just bewildered and confused. He has no idea why I might possibly be so upset with him that I’ve destroyed my own window and am pelting him with body lotions and bath salts.

I have another tube of cream loaded in my hand and ready to let fly, but I realize that no amount of rage is going to get through to him. He’s just not that self-aware. That doesn’t mean I’m not still angry, but it’s like shouting at a bad dog. He only has the vaguest memory of having taken a crap in my favorite pair of shoes. “
You know what?” I let the tube fall from my hands. “I DO know what I want, Elliot.”

“What?” he asks, a little shakily.

“I want you out of my life. Forever.”

Elliot is somewhat bruised and covered in sickly sweet–smelling goop. He figures he’s the injured party and has the right to be upset, but he’s also probably worried that the next thing I chuck out the window might be a lamp directed at this head. “
Fine!” he says, straightening himself up and trying to remember where he left his dignity. “Your loss!”

Elliot has stormed off, and it’s a good thing because the way I’m feeling, I really could have clocked him with a lighting fixture. Still, my anger hasn’t abated, and I stomp across the living room, especially furious with myself. “
Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” I scream. “Why am I such an idiot?”

“
Wwwhoa!” My feet fly out from under me. I land hard on my back, the wind knocked out of me. “...Ow...” I groan, looking around to see what felled me. It’s the stupid self-help book I dropped when Elliot started pounding on my door.

I’m in pain, but seeing the book only reignites my fury. I have been reading dating advice books for years, and all they’ve ever gotten me is trapped in relationship after relationship with pathetic idiots like Elliot. And the damn books only reinforce staying with an asshole once you’re landed with one. They don’t ever tell you to ditch the schmuck. They don’t explain how to find a great guy. After years of extensive research, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that all dating advice books are a load of total crap.

Struggling to my feet, I snag the book and chuck it out the window. “There!” I shout, and a wave of triumph rolls over me. That felt great. I will never be the victim of some crackpot wannabe advice columnist ever again. Elated, I rush over to the section of my bookshelves designated for advice and snatch up another book. There will be no more of these obnoxious books in my life. “No more ‘I'm Okay, You're a Complete Dill Hole’!” I shout, throwing the book out the window. I grab another volume and look at the title. “No more ‘The Fools’!” This book also gets pitched.

I clamber for another book, and let me tell you, there are plenty. “No more, ‘
He's Just Not That Into You, But He'll Sleep With You Anyway’!” I bellow, flinging it toward the gaping hole where a sheet of glass used to be.

As I’m reaching for another worthless piece of printed trash, my eyes alight on an ancient saber with a lanyard grip that I just paid off after having it in layaway for six months. I love this sword. Just holding it makes me feel very connected to my Chinese heritage. But I love destroying self-help books even more. With the weapon in hand, I yank my next victim off the shelf and toss the book into the air. “No more, ‘
Women Like to Whine and Men Have a Penis’!” Using both hands, I bring the sword down, slicing through the book with a mighty “zwak!" A flurry of clipped papers flutters around the room.

I know I’m acting like a crazy woman destroying books with an antique sword, but it feels so good that I don’t care. I turn to the shelf to make my next selection. As I raise my sword in preparation of cleaving something new in twain, I catch sight of the blade. Was that small knick always there, or is it something I just added with my psychotic meltdown?

I definitely want all the self-help books out of my life, but I’m not willing to destroy a beautiful piece of history to do it. I carefully replace the sword on the wall. All the adrenaline drains out of me while I do it. Suddenly, I’m very tired and more than slightly embarrassed by my behavior. I fling myself onto the couch with a "whumph!” I’m a little less coordinated than I should be, and I smack into the bookshelf behind the couch, causing all the volumes above me to quiver and dance out of line. I’m normally quite the perfectionist about my books. I like to keep them aligned on the shelves with straight edge precision. But the hell with it, I can always fix the shelves tomorrow, after I’ve eradicated every single relationship advice book from my condo. “I'm done with all of you!” I yell at the books as they sneer down at me.

I slump backwards on the couch with a little too much determination to relax and end up whacking my head on the bookshelf. “Ouch!” I wail, clutching my noggin as the shelf shakes for a second time. I close my eyes and add pressure to the point of pain, waiting for it to fade.

Something feels wrong, and I open my eyes only to realize that one of the books on the very top shelf has loosened from its friends and is teetering on the edge. “Crap,” is all I have time to think before gravity takes over and the book plunges toward my head. I catch part of the tile as the hardcover missile targets me.
The Art
… registers in my brain before I’m seeing stars.

Chapter 7

              “Hello? Sue?” a female voice calls from outside my broken window. “It's Dahlia. What's going on in there? Should I be calling 911?”

I’m sitting on the couch reading while clutching an ice pack to my head where I got clocked with the book. I look up as my neighbor Dahlia swipes back the curtain, her eyes darting apprehensively around my living room. She’s scared, but she’s trying to hide it. I don’t know Dahlia super well, but I can tell from the meticulous way she dresses that she doesn’t like feeling out of control, and finding my mutilated corpse in a puddle of blood would probably put a damper on her day. “
Please tell me you're not dead in here. I really hate a mess,” she says.

Dahlia is wearing dark red lipstick that would never dream of smudging beyond the confines of her full lips, a midnight blue silk blouse (without a wrinkle) that’s unbuttoned down to the bra line, and a gray pencil skirt that perfectly hugs her slightly curvy hips. I’m sure if I could see her feet, I’d find they are clad in a pair of sling-back stilettos. She’s very p
rofessional but with a strong undercurrent of feline sexy. A style and attitude I could never pull off in a million years.

I look up from my reading. “
Hey, Dahlia. No, I'm alive.”

Through the window, Dahlia peers
about the room again, sighs a little with relief, and then looks annoyed. “Why are there toiletries and self-help books everywhere out here?”

“I broke up with my boyfriend,” I tell her.

She nods. “That explains it.”

I unlock the door, and
Dahlia enters my living room like a finicky cat trying not to step in a puddle. “And you're okay?” she asks.

I think about it for a moment and then say, “
I am, actually.”

Still concerned,
Dahlia gestures toward the ice pack. “Did he assault you or something?”

“
No.” I let out a small laugh to show I really mean it. “A book fell off the shelf.”

Using only two fingers
, and with obvious distaste, Dahlia picks up a sticky tube of something off the floor. “So you've decided you're going to stop bathing and reading self-help books?” She raises both eyebrows.

“
No.” I’m firm on this. “I'm going to keep bathing. I just don't enjoy smelling like a baby's ass.”

She shrugs, as if that much is obvious. “
Who does?”

Using the toe of one of her pointy sling-back shoes, Dahlia nudges a portion of the cleaved book. “
And the self-help books?”

I snatch the book from the floor and fling it out the window, ignoring her startled look. “
No,” I tell her. “Those are definitely out. At least,” I add, “the ones on relationships.”

This makes Dahlia’s eyebrows rise even further up her forehead. “You plan on
reading something else for advice?”

“Yes,” I say while flinging myself back on the couch, heedless of how it makes the bookshelf tremble.

She’s intrigued. “What? If you don't mind me asking.”

“This,” I say, shoving the book that’s just been engrossing me into her hands.

Dahlia perches herself on a chair and crosses her long legs. “
The Art of War
,” she reads, then glances over at me. “By Sun Tzu.”

I give her a tight, affirming smile, nodding my head once.

Dahlia tosses me a concerned look. “You realize this is a book on military strategy.”

“No.” She’s wrong there.
“It's THE book on military strategy,” I tell her.

Glancing back at the book’s cover, she frowns. “
I'm not so sure this was meant to be used as a dating guide.”

I cross my arms. “
Says who?”

“
The guy who wrote it.”

“That's just bad marketing.” I wave off her criticism
. “It's the perfect dating guide.”

“
Because?” she wants to know.

“
Because I'm sick of being a doormat,” I blurt. Yes, I’ve come to realize my worst fears are true. I know I’ve been a doormat, but I’m not going to be anymore. “I'm sick of dating losers.”

I kick at a few pages of self-help book that are near my feet. “
And these stupid books do nothing but compound the problem with their moronic advice!”

I can tell by the way she’s holding herself and tilting her head that she’s horribly engaged in my plight. “
I've never tried dating men,” she tells me. “But is it really that bad?”

Slumping down on the couch a little, I grumble. “
It's horrible.” She leans in very attentively, so I continue. “Do you know that Elliot was at least an hour late for every date we ever had? At the very least an hour. But these books say stupid stuff like I should be patient with him and explain that he's hurting my feelings.” Dahlia shakes her head, confirming that it’s bad advice, but I cut her off before she can say anything. “As if telling a guy he's being a giant dill hole ever made him less of a giant dill hole. That's bullshit, and I'm sick of it!”

Dahlia pulls back. She’s a little ruffled. I don’t think she expected me to yell. “
Yes. I can see that.”

I grab
The Art of War
out of her hands and start waving it around. “Tactics! Strategy! Maneuvers! This is the real advice you need not to get stuck with a schmuck.”

Holding up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender, Dahlia says, “Okay, I’m convinced.” She lowers her hands. “
But just how, exactly, are you going to pull it off?”

To be honest, I haven’t got a clue about that part, but I’m not going to let it stop me. I at least have the kernel of a plan. “
I've already scouted my conquest,” I tell her. “Now all I have to do is follow the advice of the master.”

My idea has Dahlia intrigued; I can tell by the way her whole body seems alert. She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “
Ooh, who did you target?” Her eyes glow a little in anticipation of some juicy gossip.

Her intense interest makes me cautious. I mean, Chicago’s a big town, but Dahlia rubs elbows with a lot of rich people, and you never know who knows who. “
I probably shouldn't say...” I try to evade the question, really not wanting to shoot myself in the foot.

“
Come on.” Dahlia won’t be dissuaded that easily. “Wasn't I going to call 911 if you were dead?” she points out.

“
Okay... Well...” I’m still reluctant but can’t resist at least giving a hint. “He's someone I work with.”

I can tell from her reaction that my hint was too obvious. She’s already come to a conclusion. “Trent Winchell!” she says. Her answer is more like a pronouncement than a guess.

I’m surprised and more than a little embarrassed. There’s no point in hiding it. “How did you know?” I ask.

“
I'm gay, not a moron,” she tells me in a very droll tone. “Besides, it's who I'd go for.” After thinking about it for another moment, she adds, “Not to be rude, but seriously, don't you think you're aiming pretty high? He is one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, after all,” she points out.

Not that this thought hasn’t crossed my mind already, but I’ve blotted it out. “
I have to do something different,” I insist, the pitch of my voice expressing my exasperation. “After Elliot, I don't think I can aim any lower.”

“Yes,” she nods, pursing her lips together. “
You've got a point. I've seen your ex in the halls.” She suppresses a slight shudder. “He wasn't really into grooming, was he?”

I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “
He was more into cheating.”

Dahlia
doesn’t try to hide her revulsion. “What?” she almost gags. “That thing got more than one woman to sleep with it? In the same decade?” She is simply incredulous. “Wow! You straight girls really do have it rough.”

“
Tell me about it,” I say, slumping even deeper into the couch. “If I don't do something drastic, I'm going to end up sneaking into coffee houses and whacking members of the slacker generation on the backs of their skulls with a two-by-four.”

“
Good for you,” Dahlia nods, as if what I’ve just said makes perfect sense and doesn’t, in fact, sound on the verge of psychotic. “I admire your determination. How are you going to put this whole war book plan into action again?”

And there’s where I’m stumped. How does one adapt a book on military strategy to the battlefield of dating in the modern world? “
I don't know yet,” I have to confess, “but I'm going to figure it out.”