“Uh huh.” Mike sat at the bar, dimly aware of what Angela was saying. He was having trouble hearing the recap of the last touchdown over what she was blathering on about so he turned to face her.
“… I just feel like there’s no connection.” She was moving her hands back and forth between them as though she was physically trying to create the emotional connection he, too, knew once existed between them but had long since hit the road. It had hit the road with its bags packed and just like Jack in that oldies song, it wasn’t ever coming back.
“Angela, look. You’re completely right. I haven’t been completely honest and emotionally open with you. Let me change that right now. I’m really trying to watch this fucking game so if you’d kindly go bitch about the lack of an emotional connection with that barstool over there and stop talking over the TV I’m sure you’d find more satisfaction at the end of that conversation than you’re going to find at the end of this one.”
Angela froze, her hands paused midway between the dual tracks they had been running. Her mouth hung slightly agape, apparently shocked at what Mike had considered obvious.
In Mike’s opinion it was probably best to cut the losses now than to wait until she decided, in one of her emotional swings, to go all domestic on him and stop taking the pill.
Angela snatched her purse off the bar and stalked out, flipping him off. At least her hands found something to do again and, hey, bonus, she didn’t say a word as she left.