Page 33 of Tito

Reggie

It was just before midnight on Sunday. Armed with a container of nail polish remover, two bottles of wine, a barbeque igniter, a bag of Doritos, and a boatload of desire to settle a score, Mel and I were in my backyard.

Illuminated by the two motion sensing lights that were mounted over my back door, we prepared fill the night sky with smoky proof of my hatred for Jared, his choices of attire, and his preferences in household furnishings.

Mel took a drink of wine from the bottle while assessing the situation. “I think we need to cut the cushions first. That’s what they do in the movies.”

I looked at her with uncertain eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the movies,” she explained. “They always pull out a pocket knife and cut the seat cushions of the car they’re burning before they light it on fire. I think we need to expose the poofy stuff inside the cushions.” She took another drink. “Maybe it burns better.”

Even though I was drunk, it made perfect sense. I doubted the pleather would burst into flames as freely as the inner fabric. In fact, the more I thought about it, I doubted the green vinyl would burn no matter how much nail polish remover I poured on it.

Mel was right. Cutting the cushions was the way to go, no doubt.

It didn’t surprise me that I hadn’t covered all the bases in planning the couch-burning exercise. I was still mentally recovering from Tito’s untimely departure less that twenty-four hours prior. The night went into my mental diary as being my first—and I hoped last—sexual denial.

“I think you’re right,” I said, reaching for the bottle of wine. “I see one problem, though. A big one.”

She took another drink and then handed me the bottle. “What?”

“We don’t have a pocket knife.”

Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Fuuuuck.”

I took a few drinks of wine while staring at the faux leather cushions. Copping a squat on the contemporary piece of green shit while wearing shorts was like sitting on a three-foot by three-foot piece of upside-down duct tape. I couldn’t begin to count the amount of times I had to peel my legs from the surface of the cushions.

All to please the man who rewarded me by fucking a familiar stripper in the front seat his car.

“Can I have the bottle back,” Mel asked. “I need another drink.”

I handed her the bottle. Before she raised it to her lips, the yard went pitch-black.

I waved my arms like I was trying to get the attention of Adam Levine from the back row of a Maroon 5 concert. After a few seconds of frantic thrashing on my part, the lights clicked on, illuminating the stockpile of items we were determined to reduce to ashes.

My gaze fell to my bare feet.

While staring at the filthy gunboats, I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers. After a moment, it came to me.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Problem solved.”

Seemingly unaffected by my proclamation, Mel looked at me like she was lost. “Huh?”

“Steak knife,” I blurted.

“Oh.” She took a casual drink of wine. “Damn. Never thought of that.”

“Be right back,” I said.

I ran into the house and returned in an instant with two steak knives. I handed one to Mel. “I know you hated this thing just as much as I did.”

With the bottle of wine in one hand and the knife in the other, she leaned over the couch. “Fuck yes, I did.”

Ripping and tearing at the hideous fabric like the continuation of our lives depended solely on reducing the lime-green piece of shit to a pile of rubble, we carved the back of the three-thousand-dollar couch to nothing more than a wooden frame. Thoroughly satisfied at our deconstruction skills, we then sliced the cushions into unrecognizable mounds of green and white fluff.

Gasping to catch my breath, I took a step back and admired our handiwork.

“Holy…shit,” I said, huffing to catch my breath. “That was fun.”