I sigh, and woman-splain the basic math of alcohol content in cocktails versus beer.
“Well, I still want a beer,” he says, not budging from his latest fixation. “Can I get another drink now?”
“No, Timmy,” I frown, uneasiness creeping in, heartburn bubbling up in my chest. “We agreed on one drink. Let’s not make this a thing.”
He scowls. “I want afuckingdrink,” he huffs.
I appease him. “I’ll get you a beer at the show, okay?”
His mood shifts instantly, and he smiles, squeezing my thigh. “Thank you, baby. I love you.”
After we finish our meal, we close out and stroll to the nearby theatre.
Once inside, Timmy immediately veers toward the bar. “You said I could get a beer, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “One beer.”
We climb the stairs and the bar comes into view. I immediately feel on edge.
We join the line, and as we approach the counter, his eyes lock onto someone ordering a double whiskey.
“What kind of beer do you want?” I ask.
“I changed my mind. I want that,” he says, pointing at the double whiskey.
“No,” I say, exasperated. “We agreed on beer, not whiskey.”
Without a word, he storms off, leaving me stranded.
Sheepishly, I exit the bar line and walk downstairs. I head to our seats, and eventually, he rejoins me. We sit together for a while, waiting for the opener to come on, but soon he bolts again. “I can’t do this!” he says loudly, jumping to his feet and barging his way out of the row and to the back of the theater.
What the hell is going on?
But I know exactly what is going on.
This is punishment.
For not giving in and buying him a double whiskey.
And for not just blindly accepting that he weaned himself off Anabusin—curiously two weeks before his birthday—without telling me.
For daring to enjoy something without making him the center of attention.
And now, he’s making it abundantly clear I’m going to pay for my ‘crimes’.
But there’s no way I’m buying into this shit. I’m not letting him ruin this for me.
I’ve been looking forward to this show for months, and I will be watching Chelsea Handler do her thing whether he likes it or not.
I sit, steeling myself.
About ten minutes later, Timmy returns, just in time for the opening act.
“I can’t handle being in big crowds,” Timmy says, sulking. “I can’t believe you dragged me here to this stupid show. I can’t handle places like this.”
I’m dumbstruck. Timmy—the attention-seeker of the universe—is… intimidated by crowds now?
The same guy who chooses to wear a Superman cape and a giant woven coconut hat can’t handle people… looking at him?