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Women talked about his twelve inches in the hair salons from Miami, Florida to Savannah, Georgia.
"I don't work enough," my boyfriend said exhaustedly, clad in his Publix supermarket uniform. His attitude to was starting to get to me. Why couldn't we be happy, like in the beginning? I know I told my share of lies. I know I haven't been completely honest with him but what woman was completely honest?
     He cut off the goatee, Publix Supermarket regulations, which was a dumb ass regulation. His mustache had to be at a moderate length, barely there I called it. No earrings and my man loved his jewelry. He was the Stock4 Manager in the downtown Miami store.
     My brows rose. "You don't what?"
     "Have you been taking showers effectively?" he asked off-handedly.
     I was deeply offended. "What do you mean?" I asked breathlessly, trying to control myself, trying to keep it together like the girl singing group 702 and those singing bitches from Vegas haven't been a real group since, well, you get the point.
     He gave a tart smile. He shot icily, "Because if you have, you would have stayed in the shower long enough to clean the wax out of your ears so I wouldn't have to repeat myself. No wonder Q-
Tips went down on the NASDAQ."
     No he didn't! "Fuck you, Pierre."
     My words seemed to have knocked him in the gut.
     He winced a tad. And I didn't gahdamn care!