I don't speak girl!

Comedy about a divorcee talking to his pastor

It was the height of the great gender wars of the second quarter of the twenty-first century, a time when flirting was considered chemical warfare and marriage licenses came with hazard warnings and prenups. Men and women still cohabited, but mostly like rival nations forced to share the same postal code.

Jeremy had been through his share of battles: bossy mother, nagging wife (now ex-wife turned lesbian revolutionary), and a daughter who swapped pink glitz and boy-band posters for feminist graffiti and a sexuality label so obscure it sounded like a new Italian cheese. Her bedroom walls shouted at him in blocky slogans: “Smash the Patriarchy!”, “Consent is My Superpower!”, and one particularly confusing one, “Death Before Dior!” Her dresser spilled over with “armor”: steel-toed Doc Martens, sweatshirts four sizes too big, and jeans engineered to repel male eyes like mosquito spray. Her black leather jacket was covered in spiky silver studs. Her Spotify account was a constant drone of angry cellos and women screaming poetic manifestos over distorted guitars. Walking past her door was like crossing into a war museum where every exhibit reminded him he was the enemy.

In hindsight, he admitted his wife had given fair warning, too. She subscribed to 'Women Who Prefer Women Monthly', she was a devoted fan of the lesbian girl-band of Tegan and Sara, and declared Brad Pitt “a little too desperate for attention.” On movie nights, she sighed more at Cate Blanchett’s cheekbones than at the plot. Jeremy thought nothing of it; he figured all women admired other women, the way men admired cars they’d never drive. Only later did it dawn on him she’d been building an exit ramp with neon rainbow signs, and he’d just sailed on oblivious.

But at least God still kept office hours. So Jeremy booked time with his pastor.

The pastor’s office was tidy: crucifix on the wall, lemon-polished desk, and a faint smell of herbal tea.

“Shoes off, please,” the pastor said warmly. “Mat by the door.”

Jeremy obliged. “Wouldn’t want to track mud all over the holy carpet.”

They settled in.

“So,” the pastor asked, “how have you been since the divorce?”

“Finalized. Signed papers, no more ball and chain. I’m basically Braveheart. Without the blue face paint. Or the charisma.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Relieved. Every conversation was like talking to a blender set to rage smoothie.”

“Any idea why she was always so angry?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Oh, Pastor, if I knew that, I'd probably still be married. However, I don’t speak girl. I hear female emotions like white noise or that car alarm that goes off at three am that no one knows how to switch off.”

The pastor leaned in. “Do you remember my sermon on the four Ps? Priest, prophet, protector, provider?”

“Oh yeah. I nailed those. Paid the bills, prayed for her, quoted Scripture like I was running a Christian fortune-cookie franchise. Protector? Absolutely. Though honestly, nobody tried anything, I look like I wrestle grizzlies for fun.”

“And yet she wasn’t happy.”

“No... big mystery... she even promised to honor and obey! I thought that was legally binding.”

The pastor raised an eyebrow.

Jeremy groaned. “Fine. Maybe I said stuff she didn’t like. Example: once I said women look good in mini-bikinis and she hit the roof.”

The pastor winced. “How old is she?”

“Forties. Why?”

“Do you think maybe that comment could be… hurtful?”

Jeremy blinked. “Come on, Pastor. Ninety percent of men... scientific fact... agree that hot women look good in bikinis. That’s biology. The real problem is women who can’t be honest about it.”

“Or,” the pastor said gently, “maybe most men are just diplomatic enough not to say it to a middle-aged wife?”

Jeremy folded his arms. “Diplomatic. Right. Next, you’ll tell me the Vatican says men are the problem.”

The pastor smiled faintly. “Well, they did study confessions by gender. Women, pride and vanity.”

“See? Case closed. Women just need to get over themselves and start treating men with a little more respect.”

“And men, lust, greed, gluttony.”

Jeremy leaned forward. “They bring that on themselves. Lust? If wives were more obliging in the bedroom, men wouldn’t lust. Greed? If women didn’t want fancy houses and expensive cars, men wouldn’t hustle so hard. Gluttony? Forgive me for chewing jerky after a ten-hour shift and being nagged for not being a poncy vegan.”

The pastor stared at him. “So your defense is… the seven deadly sins are women’s fault?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Not all seven. Just the fun ones.” Jeremy gave a nervous laugh. Maybe the pastor had a point on that one.

Somehow, the pastor didn’t laugh him out of the room. Instead, with patient amusement, he rolled out what sounded like a phrasebook for surviving the opposite sex.

“Take ‘I’m fine,’” he said. “It’s never fine. At best, she’s mildly annoyed. At worst, she’s writing your obituary. A clipped ‘Fine’ means trouble pending; a sighing ‘I’m fine’ is basically a funeral dirge.”

Jeremy frowned. “So… like weather alerts?”

“Exactly. Green means storms coming, yellow means take cover, red means insure your car and your soul.”

The pastor went on: “‘Do whatever you want’ isn’t permission, it’s a dare. Cross that line, and you’ll find your toothbrush in the dog bowl. ‘We need to talk’ means trial’s in session, you’ve got a Post-it note defense against a ten-page exhibit list.”

He leaned back, warming to his theme. “Even questions have codes. If she asks, ‘Do I look good in this?’ the only correct answer is immediate enthusiasm. Pause, suggest an alternative, or, God forbid, try honesty, and you’ve lost.”

Jeremy groaned. “But honesty’s supposed to be good!”

“Only the flattering kind,” the pastor said. “Think diplomacy. You don’t tell a dignitary their national dish tastes like dog food, you call it ‘bold.’”

There were more: “‘I don’t care where we eat’ means ‘Pick the place I want but won’t name.’ ‘It’s nothing’ means ‘It’s everything.’ ‘Maybe later’ means ‘I hope you forget.’”

Finally, the pastor concluded, “Men talk in telegrams: ‘hungry,’ ‘tired,’ ‘beer.’ Women write novels, with footnotes, italics, and subplots. If you don’t read the whole story, you’ll miss the meaning.”

Jeremy slumped back in the chair. “Pastor, you’re telling me my whole marriage was basically me skimming the introduction and then wondering why the ending didn’t make sense.”

“Precisely,” the pastor said, steepling fingers in a way that made him look like a guru. “But now you have the translation guide. Use it wisely.” An image of Yoda popped into Jeremy's head, and a feeling that the pastor should have added "my young apprentice" to the end of that sentence.

Jeremy actually found himself impressed. It was like stumbling into a United Nations interpreter booth for the language of women. All those dark glances, icy silences, and door slams where his wife assumed he had the psychic ability to decipher suddenly made sense. He realized now he should have been studying the warning signs instead of enjoying the silence in the pauses between nags.

He leaned back. “Pastor, it is all a little overwhelming. Can women actually keep track of such complex motivational patterns and continual word games? Maybe I am just not cut out for relationships. I have always been a plain-speaking kind of guy. I guess I've been blind to a whole other world. But your mastery of girl talk is… well, incredible. You speak fluent girl. Honestly, I didn’t think a man could do that.”

The pastor smiled modestly. “It’s a gift. Years of study. Careful listening. A touch of divine wisdom.”

Jeremy’s eyes wandered across the desk. Bible. Notebook. Mug of peppermint tea. And a small orange pill bottle: Estradiol 2mg. Right beside it, a padded training bra tag was peeking out of a paper bag.

Jeremy blinked. His gaze traveled slowly back up to the pastor, whose clerical shirt now strained, unmistakably, against two small but steadily growing curves.

“Oh,” Jeremy said at last. “Well… that explains the translation skills.”

The pastor adjusted his, or was it her, collar. “Now then. Shall we talk about humility?”

W/C & Notes ▼

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Notes: To be perfectly honest, I don't know if this is comedy, tragedy, or historical commentary. Shakespeare, you got any advice on this? If you do not laugh about the current mess, then I guess you just have to cry about it. It is probably better to laugh than to cry, and better therapy for the soul.