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The Story of the Black Eye

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black-eye-smiley-hi

“What happened to his eye?” Beautiful asks me.

It’s late Saturday afternoon and I’m in Wuod Matha’s room barely awake with Mr. Hangover watching over my being probably sporting a ‘the-bad-guy-in-a-James-Bond-movie’ grin as he takes his time to bring the hurt that I surely know he’ll bring.

(Dear feminists, do not take offence that I have used a male honorific for hangover. It is not a gender-based slight nor do I have any untoward intentions. Trust me in this; you’d be more offended if I’d said Miss Honorific)

I look at Wuod Matha sprawled on the other bed his eye even more Chinese looking than usual because of the swelling and then I recall yester night and how it all went down and I slump further into the bed when I remember how wild and downright silly last night was.

“So? What happened to him?” Beautiful asks again, more impatiently now and I begin to wonder how she got in to the room in the first place.

“How did you get in?” I ask, the words coming out all chopped up and slow like a white man on a 100m sprint.

“Through the door,” she answers emphatically and I do have to admit that is probably a good answer to a somewhat stupid question.

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant. The door was open. Seems you guys had one heck of a night.”

I finally sit up and face her; my head still reeling from God knows what I drank.

“It was epic,” I smile at her.

“Agreed, so what happened to his eye?”

“It’s sort of a long story.”

“I have time; after all I had come looking for you.”

“And I’m hung-over.”

“That can be managed with warm soup…that you will get after telling me the story.”

“Not fair blackmailing a guy in his weak state.”

“Life has never been fair. Cain killed his own brother Abel. And at the time there were only four people on Earth so you can see from a very long time ago you learn that shit just happens. And even your kin can kill you.”

“Isn’t that too deep of an illustration?”

“Yeah, life’s deep like that…and so am I.”

“Okay I’ll tell you what happened as you make me soup. Deal?”

“You know Pablo, I’m not…”

But she bites her tongue and instead says, “I’d be delighted to.”

And even though I know I’ll have to give up a few embarrassing details about the previous night one major victory lies ahead. Against all odds, the proud and beautiful, uhm, Beautiful is going to cook for me. And that is enough to soothe any hangover.

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