In which Bread gets pissed. In both the American and the English sense of the word.

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk at 4:59, and happened to see the clock in my taskbar roll to 5:00. My cell phone rang immediately. I ignored it and finished up what I was doing, and got ready to leave for the day. My cell rang again, I picked it up. It was Bread, wanting to know what I was doing.

I said I thought I might have rehearsal, that I was going to the bar, that I’d call him back later when I knew.

By a quarter past five I was comfortable, belly-up to the bar with a book and a smoke and a Cosmopolitan. I read for awhile as I finished my drink. Then I packed up and was getting ready to leave when the two gentlemen to my right started talking with me. Turns out they’re telephony dudes, currently installing VoIP phones for Henry County. They know some people where I work. One of them bought me a drink. I took my coat back off as I checked my phone: no calls. Probably no rehearsal, then. I decided to call Bread on the way home. One of the guys sells muscle cars, the other one builds custom tube amps. We talked about telephony, the Internet, cars, and music gear and were having a great old time. The guy buying me drinks was married.

So then Bread walks into the bar, pinches my shoulder and hisses, “Thanks for thinking of me!” and stalks off to the end of the bar.

Ohhhhhh-kay. Pissed off. WTF? It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet; not like I was out late.

I wanted to ignore him – because the hell with that noise – but I dutifully excused myself from my conversation and followed him. While he was waiting for the bartender to make his drinks he let me know He Was Not Pleased with me for… for not calling him back? (He could have called me.) Whatever. I really didn’t get what he was mad about, but I patiently explained that I never called him at the stroke of five when he was working and I was home; that I never took it personally when he went out after work for a drink or six and didn’t get home until 7:30 or 8:00; that I was just sitting and chatting at the damn bar and it wasn’t even seven o’clock and he’d just better simmer down!

Well, actually I said I was sorry he was angry. But I was thinking that he’d just best simmer down. (It’s hardly my fault he’s unemployed and bored.)

He cheered up eventually, and even came over to discuss his rat rod with the dudes I’d met who were actually interested in buying it. But he spent most of his time in the other room watching the pool tourney and being miffed at me.

Now, I’ve been working part-time for two years and that’s a lot of Mondays and Fridays when I’m home alone all day doing domestic crap. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had dinner ready at 6:00 and he hasn’t rolled in ’til 7:30. It never even occurred to me to get pissed off, let alone jump in my truck and drive to town and hiss at him. And I sincerely doubt he’d had dinner waiting on me last night! Feh. The nerve on that man makes me wanna slap him upside his skull.

Anyway, we stayed for awhile and my new friends left. Bread and I decided we were hungry so I ordered a pizza and a salad from next door, and we sat at one of the tables and ate. Amazon Blonde sat with us, and Bread spent the time trying to get her to show him her tits. In fact, he blatantly asked her to sleep with him – which was really funny at the time – and do I care? Not at all. Never have. I mean, she’s Truck’s girlfriend, it’s all in fun. This new jealousy thing of his is getting on my nerves, particularly compounded with his own behavior – behavior I don’t even care about, I’m just pointing it out because he’s pissed at me for doing stuff he himself does regularly – because it’s absurd and annoying. Nothing’s changed, we’ve always been like this. We don’t have kids to take care of, and so sometimes one or the other of us goes out and speaks to members of the opposite sex. Duh.

So an hour and a half later I was sitting in front of the fire at home, reading my new and long-awaited Robin Hobb, when Bread went into the bathroom and, though I didn’t get up to look, it sounded as if he had begun to worship the porcelain god. Apparently he’d had more to drink than I’d noticed. The poor fucker. He hates puking.

The jealousy is probably, if I’m honest, perhaps vaguely warranted. I’d guess he wasn’t jealous in the past because he knew he owned me. I was so into him that guys could hit on me left and right and I would barely even register it. Years later, well, yeah: things change, people age, familiarity breeds contempt and all that, blah blah blah, and you know I’ll be the first to admit I have little crushes here and there (‘I’m married, not dead,’ as they say) and I expect the same is true of him. Perhaps he feels that space; maybe it threatens him. Whatever.

He was still in bed when I left for work this morning. I bet he’s got a hangover.