Stupid Darren

Stupid Darren.

Dude will never find me. It’s dark, cold, and I’m covered in Cheetos dust down here.

Geez, brother. You just HAD to take me off while you were playing video games and eating snacks. On the couch. Onto a coffee table that you smack every single time some nine-year-old in Taiwan no-scopes you from clear across the map, you swearing through gritted teeth so you don’t wake up your napping wife and 7-month old in the next room. I can hear you now, frantically looking everywhere, your hand searching through seat cushions covered in your loose hair, sweat, and food stains trying to find me. You better hope you do before she wakes up and…

Uh-oh. She’s up.

“Hey, honey! Did you finally get some rest?”

She yawns, “Yeah. When did you get home from work?”

He’s sweating. I know he is. “An hour or two ago. No worries.” He noticed I was not on his hand, and he started whisking his hands everywhere around him trying to find me.

I can hear her wiping the crusties out of her eyes and trying to tame her wild bedhead, “Wow, it’s already dark outside. Were you working late again?”

“Yeah, baby, just still trying to get everything in line. You know: tax season is coming.”

“I guess. Have you checked on Shannon yet?”

“Yeah, honey, just a few minutes ago. She’s sleeping hard.”

“Aw, man,” I assume she checked the clock on the microwave, “it’s way past dinner time. Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have cooked!”

“Heh,” he faked a laugh, still conspicuously running his fingers through each seat cushion looking for me. CHECK UNDER THE COUCH, YOU DIPWAD! “Yeah, I know better than to wake you up from the first good sleep you’ve gotten in weeks.”

“Still though, I could have cooked dinner or something for you,” I could hear her fiddling with things on the kitchen counter.

“It’s all good. I ate something earlier,” he stood up and dusted himself off. She walked back in and around the couch when I saw her feet stop suddenly.

“Where…,” she started, and her voice warbled clumsily as her brain started putting pieces together, “where’s your wedding ring?”

I’M DOWN HERE, I wish I could scream, BUT YOUR HUSBAND IS A MORON WHO THINKS THE RING IS THE REASON HE SUCKS AT THIS GAME!

“Oh, I don’t know, sweetie. I took it off earlier and now I can’t find it. I think it’s in the couch somewhere.”

There was a long silence. I could tell from the shifting of his feet that things were getting tense. “What?” he said, exasperated after the dreadful silence grew too much for him.

“You’ve been late coming home every day this week,” she said. You could hear the emotion start to build up in her throat.

“I was home on time today,” he pleaded.

“You just said you were late. Not sixty seconds ago.”

“I said that so you wouldn’t feel guilty for sleeping so late.”

“Okay, but how do I know? You say you let me sleep, but how do I know?”

“What are you trying to say here, Steph? Why are you stuck on this?”

“Why else would you take your ring off, Darren? What reason would you have to take it off?”

I knew this would happen. He takes me off every time he plays video games, like it really makes a difference. She NEVER takes hers off. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.

“I take it off. When I play on the console. That’s it.”

“Video games?”

A long, uncomfortable beat. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“It interferes. With the button-pressing. Everything is about quick-twitch muscles, and I…”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes. It’s the truth. It’s not like I’m cheating on you, or something, Stephanie.”

“Let’s cut the B.S., Darren! Which hotel room did you really leave it in? What bedside table still has your wedding ring on it, huh?”

“Are you serious right now? You’re acting crazy! It’s somewhere in here! I’ll find it, watch!” he dropped to his knees and started shoving his arms between the cushions, frantically grasping everywhere.

“Likely story,” the tears were flowing, and I could hear her start stomping down the hall.

“Stop! What are you doing?”

“I’m taking Shannon. I’m going to my mother’s.”

“Why? I’m telling you! I’m not cheating on you!”

“Then tell me why you’ve been home late every night!”

“Tax season is coming up, and I’ve got new clients coming in every day!”

“Do you take off your ring for your new clients?”

“Hold on, wait. Calm down. Is there even a chance that you’re overreacting? Hormonal, maybe?”

“Shut up, Darren. Don’t be condescending. You’re never home, and when you are, you’re not really ‘here.’ You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me. We don’t spend time together any more!”

“You’ve been worn out. You didn’t handle the C-section well, you’re breastfeeding all the time, you’re always tired or sick or miserable. I figured you’d let me know when you’re ready to be intimate again. I swear. The ring is here somewhere, I promise!” His hand darted under the couch, desperate, clawing inches away from me. So close.

“It’s only fair, right? If you’re not getting it from me, you have to be getting it from somebody. Some tax client? New intern? Is it sitting on your desk at work, some drawer somewhere? Some lady want to go over numbers at the bar down the street? I’m so done with you.” Her feet marched down the hall, and I could hear doors opening up. No doubt she was grabbing Shannon and the diaper bag.

He begged and pleaded, but she wasn’t feeling it. He followed her up and down the hall, all the way to the door that she slammed in his face. He screamed, banged his hand against the door, to no avail. He slumped his shoulders, shuffled back down the hall to the living room. He groaned, sat aggressively down on the floor and laid flat on his back in front of the couch. His head stared at the ceiling, trying to make peace with everything that just happened, so fast and out of his control. His head slumped back to the right, facing me, and though it took a couple of seconds, he saw me. Or the silhouette of me, I’m sure. He grabbed his phone, turned on the camera, and shined a light under the couch, and I glistened in my golden (if now dusty) complexion. He reached gently under the couch and, now having an idea of where I was, it wasn’t difficult to grab me. Lifted up over his head and face, he blew the debris off, and then he shined me on his shirt. He slipped me back on his finger and stood, holding his left hand out, observing me in the place I actually belonged.

He stared at me for quite a long time. Then he looked to the door. Nothing. He let out a long breath of air, and, after a beat, he flopped himself back down on the couch. He looked at his phone for a moment, saw that it told him nothing, and he took one last glance at me.

Then he turned the console back on. The game loaded, and he reached to his right and unrolled the previously closed bag of potato chips. A few button presses, a few moments waiting in the fastly-filling lobby, and a new game loaded fresh. After several angry button presses and some muffled swear words, he reached for me. Wrenched me off his finger. He placed me, yet again, on the wobbly coffee table.

Stupid Darren.