Traffic Violation

Marge stuck around just long enough to spit on my carefully organized life. She reminded me of those anti-drug commercials: This is your life. This is your life with Marge. Cue random frying pan javelin throws.

We met on one of those beautiful days, the ones that make you feel guilty for your lack of athletic talent. I was stopped at a red light, drumming my fingertips on the steering wheel to the jingle from the commercial on the radio, when my car jolted forward. I cursed as I stepped out to examine the damage. A little brunette stepped out of her car with what was supposed to be an apologetic smile. I should have turned and ran when I saw that smile. She looked like a devious five year old who just managed to steal the whole plate of cookies and blame it on her younger brother. We looked at the back of my car and the front of hers, searching for damage. The woman ran a hand through her cropped hair, letting out a big sigh. “Well,” she finally said, “I suppose you should take me out to lunch while we figure out how much I owe you.”

That was Marge.

We were together for five explosive months. I have no idea why I was so attracted to her, but she was addictive. From that first day when I inhaled her and nearly choked, I could not stay away from her. She was my guilty pleasure.
Everything was a game to her. We played Marco Polo in department stores, chicken in traffic, and frequently had food fights… in restaurants. I’ve never been kicked out of so many places in my life. I learned quickly that no one can take themselves seriously around her. She would not allow it. I was very concerned about my thinning hair, so Marge made loud, public jokes at my expense. Laughing at myself never tasted so good.

Today, when I woke up, Marge was nowhere to be found. Her clothes, toothbrush, shoes, and her little kaleidoscope that she always kept in her purse were gone. Not knowing what to do, I started the coffee. I sat down with a cup and lifted my hand to scratch my forehead, but knocked a sticky note off my face instead. Wondering how I failed to notice a yellow Post-It on my forehead, I read Marge’s neat handwriting, “It’s not me, it’s you.” I poured myself another cup of coffee.