game seven is a very different day, ashley learned

everything changes. woke up early and ornery and things that rhyme with ornery and she said, what’s the occasion? and i said, game seven, bitch.

borrowed her car to do my laundry, chinese guy sees me there at 2:30pm and he says, ah Mr. tony why so early, i say, game seven, ho.

Mr. ho left the ice skating on the tv. it’s all good. ho.

little kids were riding their little scooters through the rows of washers and one particularily annoying seven year old clomped around the laundry mat as loudly as any little girl ever could and everyone rolled their eyes and they looked at me, i was smiling, getting my quarters out of the machine and they asked me in spanish and vietnamese and chinese, why you so peppy? life blows. and i said, ladies, it’s game seven and the angels are going to win.

a russian woman dumped her change on the top of a dryer and said, “five bucks on giants.”

i looked at the hair poking out of her mole and i said, twenty or nothing.

the woman looked at me, hurt.

i said, game seven, bizitches. no more fucking around.

did the laundry in record time. i was focused. even ran over to the ninety nine cents store during the whole dance (soy milk for ashley, candy for the week, a new plant for the house, canned vegetables, a cheese slicer, gum, etc.) picked up a pizza from Mr. pizza man.

got home and there was ashley with a warm smile and a cold beer.

happy game seven, she said.

threw her on the couch.

she said, its 4:50 isn’t the game on?

i said, not till 5pm.

finished up in time to hear melissa ethridge sing the national anthem, squeezing out every syllable like a show off. but it’s game seven. even melissa was gonna leave it all on the field.

phone rang sometime in the 4th inning.

ashley, trying to bitch out whatever young lady was calling, picked up.

i gave her the dirty look.

she gave back a look that said, what, what are you ashamed of?

i shot back a look that said, game seven, ho.

turned out it was my buddy dan.

i love dan, but this is what it sounds like when you call me during game seven.

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

i cant tell you what ashley was wearing. i cant tell you what ashley wasn’t wearing. for once in my life i didn’t know where the remote was.

once in a while she would say blah blah blah?

and i said, uh huh.

she said, no, what inning is it? angel comes on at nine.

i said, the angels are on now.

game seven.

she said, no the tv show, angel. buffy ….

i was all, baby, other than your ass on my hand right now and this tv, there isn’t anything else in the world going on, and if that ass got off and turned into a butterfly and flew off into the heavens, i wouldn’t notice, as long as it didn’t get in the way of the broadcast.

then anna kournikova called, ashley didn’t pick up, anna left the dirrtiest message that quickly was deleted by the daisy princess and when i didn’t care, i think thats when it finally sunk in to her what day it was.

matt welch

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