Expatriation Date

A short while ago, I talked about freewriting and how it was my truest writing voice…which I still maintain. Of course, editing is always essential. And certainly not everything that emerges on the computer screen or in a journal deserves to see the light of day. I thought I’d share this one, however, because it amused me.

For more of my feelings on freewriting, see this previous post.

On our second date, she asked what my expatriation date was. I asked if she meant expiration date, which I’d known since I was a boy. 1/15/2040 is while I’m designated to die.

“No, idiot,” she said, “I don’t care about that. I mean expatriation date. When you’re leaving this goddamn country. How do you not know about this? Were your parents entirely worthless?”

“I was adopted, and those people—I don’t like calling them mom and dad, they don’t deserve it—ended up being worthless, yes, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please enlighten me.”

Her eyes crossed and uncrossed, for no discernible reason. She hadn’t done that on our first date…at least, not that I noticed, that’s something I think I would notice despite not being the most observant person.

“I just told you what it was, moron,” she said and evicted her own teeth. Now that was a show worth the price of admission. Her teeth marched out and shouted various things about the indignity of it all, and she bore it was classic stoicism. When her teeth had left, she crossed her eyes again and they stayed that way.

“What is going on with you?” I asked. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“I don’t do anything on purpose,” she replied and melted into a gelatinous puddle. I sighed and left enough money on the table for our meals plus a generous tip. The server grabbed my arm before I left and kissed the hollow of my throat.

“Do you want to know my expatriation date?” I asked the server. She had purple hair and entirely too many eyes.

“No,” she answered in a husky voice that sounded better in her head than in my ears.

“Good, because I don’t know what that is.”

Later, we planted daffodils and sang songs about rusted cars.

Published by Nightshade

Musician, poet, father, husband, ex-teacher. Existential nihilist with quasi-Buddhist leanings. Generally confused.

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