I knew that designers were just as neurotic, anal, and egotistical as any artist, but somehow this surpassed all my expectations.
There I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when Thea merely asked me to look at some sketches that were sent by a fashion design student from FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology). They weren't bad. Casual wear, bikini's. I've never understood the design of bikini's. There was so little to design. And like, only one percent of the population even looked decent in them anyway.
So there I was perusing these sketches when the, Eszra, screaming queen of Sheba (and head of TIGre's fabric design) came whirling in practically accusing me of stealing designs right from under his nose. I think he had PMS. I tried to be polite, but when he told me he would kick my "fat-dyke ass from here to Toledo," I had to remind him that I was bigger, stronger, and smarter than he was...and I dressed better. Thea told me that I could've gotten my butt fired, until she reminded Tigre herself that I did, in fact, dress better than Eszra.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I didn't want to deal with fags, fag hags, fag hag's rags, or anything remotely having to do with fabric.
As I pulled up in front of the apartment, I looked forward to an evening of quiet.
But I was greeted at the door with the aroma of fresh baked bread, garlic and basil and tomatoes. Who was in the kitchen, I wonder. It certainly wasn't Alex. As pretty as she was, she couldn't cook for beans. And besides, she didn't have a key to my apartment.
"Hi...welcome home," said Mike walking in from the kitchen. Before I could decide to deck him or scream, he took my jacket and handed me a glass of wine. "Don't say a word...please, don't say a word. Stew, steam, gloat if you want, but not at least until you've had a glass of wine and heard me out."
I sipped the wine. Mmm...good bottle. I noticed he was drinking bubbly water instead of wine. Smart guy to try to impress me like that.
"I know you don't want me to be here, but I just wanted to do something to make up for the other night. I was drunk, I was stupid, I was...."
"Totally out of control," I finished the sentence for him. He laughed self-consciously.
"Yeah. Look, I'm sorry. I'm a schmuck." I looked at him and thought, who can argue with that assessment? "So, I just wanted to do something nice for you..."
"So you made me dinner?" I asked skeptically.
"Pasta, with homemade garlic bread and...a bunch of other stuff."
I shook my head. This guy was really something. He was a schmuck, but a nice schmuck. A nice schmuck who cooks, too. Who knew?? 
So we settled into a nice quiet evening, the two ex-roomies. Dinner was good, and thank goodness the conversation minimal. I wasn't in the mood to talk and Mike was being a good boy and keeping his mouth shut. The only thing slightly annoying were his glances seeking approval for the meal. I said kiddingly, "Mike, you look at me like that one more time, I'm gonna have to slug you. Dinner's delicious!"
Of course, it was too good to be true. The doorbell rang during dessert. I answered the door.
It was Jane.
"I knew I'd find you here..." she sighed.
"I live here," I said.
"Excuse me, Fran." She walked passed me and walked into Mike's arms. "No, I mean you, sweet thing."
I almost laughed when I saw Mike's face -- it was a look a husband might have if his mistress interrupted a family dinner. Very goofy. Straight guys are such wimps.
I didn't laugh and I didn't get angry. I simply thanked Mike for the lovely dinner, the wine, the minimal conversation-- and now it was time for him to go. To his credit, he offered to wash the dishes; but I had lost my patience -- I didn't want my ex-roomie and my ex-girlie to be in my home any longer.
