to answer. She re-entered her house and slammed the door shut. The sound could be heard two blocks away. It was a noise louder than the volume of her yelling at Bill, but only by a little.
The young couple on the sidewalk slowly passed from sight, continuously staring behind them, captivated by the conflict unfolding in public. They weren’t the only ones looking at Bill. Neighbors on either side of Linda’s house and across the street had begun to appear outside or open windows to see what the ruckus was about. In this well-to-do, family-oriented neighborhood inside New York City, houses were separate, yet still close together, so many people could usually hear any disturbance outside at once. A dispute out of doors was generally rare in the area—houses were large with at least three floors and had plenty of space inside for private screaming—but Linda was not the typical homeowner. Due to numerous incidents, she had developed a reputation for putting on a good show, with lots of melodrama and a fast moving action plot, which her neighbors found preferable to any program on television. They wanted to catch the latest episode. As discreetly as they could, women and men from the surrounding houses settled into locations where they could observe the scene unfold, without drawing attention to themselves. Children, of course, felt no such restriction. They were running across lawns, pulling playmates to come look, jumping up and down in prime viewing spots, smiling, giggling, talking, pointing at Bill, unable to control their excitement. To them, Linda’s shenanigans were more entertaining than anything else they could watch or play.
Bill was not looking at any of them. “That risotto was pretty bad,” he said to himself.
While he debated internally whether he should ring the bell and apologize for the quality of the risotto or go pick up his bag and diplomatically cease further negotiations for the moment, the door flew open and Linda stomped out.
“You give me no mental or spiritual stimulation,” she yelled. At the moment, she was not offering those qualities either, but that fact didn’t bother her.
“Tell me what you want. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” Bill responded, opening his arms wide in a grand dramatic gesture that would indicate powerful heart-felt feeling in most contexts. Lovers sometimes plead with their beloved to be more loving, he knew from the little poetry he had read, so he thought this tactic might work.
“You waste my time,” Linda retorted, before turning around and slamming the door in his face again.
“Women!” Bill exclaimed to himself, unlike any pastoral poet.
A big black dog, which was being walked by a middle-aged woman in a sweatsuit, appeared to hear and understand him. The dog began to bark angrily at Bill and strain at the leash, which the petite owner had to hold tightly with both hands and pull in the opposite direction, lest the dog drag her toward Bill. The woman exerted herself with an exaggerated smile, as if to say she didn’t know what had come over the dog. With much difficulty, she led her dog away barking and growling. “Good girl, be a good girl,” she encouraged the dog. “That man doesn’t mean any harm.” The dog didn’t seem so sure.
Thinking the date had finally come to an end, Bill went to pick up his bag on the grass. He had only gone several steps in that direction, when Linda opened the red door once more and marched out. She held a medium-sized box of low-quality, mass-produced American chocolates, which had been purchased from a drugstore, and a small, inexpensive bouquet of red roses from a corner deli, which had passed their peak of freshness. The roses were wrapped in paper and held together with a rubber band.
“Take your flowers and your candy,” she shrieked.
“They’re for you,” Bill replied, turning around and walking toward her, imploring her with both hands. “I bought them for you. You can keep them. They’re for you.”
Linda, however, preferred to return the gifts. She threw the bouquet then the chocolates at Bill’s head. He ducked, raising his arms to shield his head, but still he was partially hit by the projectiles. Linda could throw with the accuracy of a satellite-controlled missile-launcher, one that actually worked properly. During its flight, the box of chocolates opened, and some pieces fell out.
“Take them, you cheapskate!” she screamed.
“Aww, you didn’t need to do that,” Bill moaned, standing up straight again. “Those are good chocolates.