Proximity to me, when trying to order food is still dangerous.

When I got home tonight, I was very tired. Dude was very hungry. I was not. He decided it was Cheesecake Night, and ordered a bunch of his favorite foods, plus pretzel bites and a slice of cheesecake for me (to be balanced by the Caesar salad already prepared in the fridge).
I fell asleep.

When I woke up, he was on the phone. "It was supposed to be here an hour ago. It's not here. No. No. It was not on the front porch. There is no front porch. No. No. No he didn't ring the bell. I've been waiting here the whole time. No. Can you ... I'm looking at the app now. He didn't drop it off at the right address. Saint Mark Street. SAINT. Saint Mark Street. He dropped it off at Mark Street. I mean don't you use GPSes? Is my address wrong on the order? Ok. Well ... no ... he didn't. No. He.." He turns to me. "She hung up on me."

We talked for a few minutes, as he waited for her to call back. She did not. So he called the delivery place again. I went in to the other room to check e-mail. When he came out, he said "They say they'll refund my money but they can't get us the food because they took SO LONG arguing with me that the restaurant closed."

"I'll just order from somewhere else. It will be fine."

He looked like it was Kick Rocks O'clock. "I think I"m just going to go to sleep."

"Ok."

"WAIT! It's $60 worth of food. I'm just going to go to Mark Street and pick it up."

I made a sour face. "It's probably already gone. Didn't they say they dropped it off an hour ago? It's not going to be there. But I'll order a Lyft." Except I won't because there haven't been any Lyfts available in the city of Boston since March. "I'm sorry. There aren't any."

Dude finds an Uber that will drive him to Mark Street and back. He gets dressed. I order food. He takes his Uber.

Fifteen minutes later he calls. "The food isn't here. Also the Uber driver sped off instead of waiting, like I asked him. I'm coming home and going to sleep."

"Ok. I'm sorry."

But little does he know I've ordered frozen yogurt AND sorbet. Mango/Watermelon sorbet with strawberries and mangoes. Pina Colada sorbet with cherries. Vanilla froyo with Heath bar crunch, waffle cone bits, and butterscotch. Vanilla froyo with cheesecake, caramel, and pecans.

He comes home. There are giant hot pretzels, chicken Caesar salads, fish and chips (I didn't mention that yesterday he ordered fish and chips, and the place delivered a fish that they fried without fileting or deboning, so it was all tail, scales, and bones.), mashed potatos, and the aforementioned froyo and sorbet.

What he doesn't know is that the froyo and sorbet were delivered flawlessly but when I went to pick up the hot food from our lobby, they'd left a small paper bag of French Fries, a sub bag full of plasticware and napkins, and nothing else. And I'd chased that shitty delivery guy down the street, caught him, and exchanged the bag o'crap for my actual food. Because I was not going to let the night end as inconvenient as it began.

The sorbet was Astounding.

​The froyo is for tomorrow.

​My favorite part of Pandemic Mask Wearing is that it enables me to yawn repeatedly while someone who is Never Going To Buy Anything From Me tells me the complete history of every comic they've ever thought about purchasing.

"Do you come here often? Would you like to come here now?"

I hate Hagglers.

Frequent Customer puts a bunch of valuable back issues on the counter. "Hey can I get a deal on these?"

I look up the books. They're priced at $10, $10, and $30 in our store. Online they're priced at $35, $35, and $80. "No. Sorry. These are going for three times what we have them stickered for. If you don't end up buying them, I'm going to at least double the price on them. But I will honor their sticker price for you."

"Could I get them for $40?" he asks.

"Nope. They're priced at a total of $50. It's $150 worth of books. You're already getting a great deal."

"$45?" he asks.

"$125?" I offer.

"The guy who used to work here would give me deals."

"I am giving you a deal. You're getting these books for A Third of what they're worth. And since you're getting three copies of the same issue, I'm guessing you're going to resell them. You are getting a tremendous deal at $50. If you don't buy them, they will be a total of at least $100 the next time you come in. Probably $150."

"What's the condidion of the books being sold for those prices. These are pretty dinged up."

They are not.

"8.0. These are all at least 9.0s."

"Is your coworker around?" Fucko The Clown asks.

"Nope. And if he was, he'd probably charge you $100 for these. Do you want them?" I pick up the pricing gun and put it on the counter.

"I guess I'll get them, then. You sure you can't do $45?"

"Positive."

​He left, having bought them.

Comrade: "Did you hear about the six year old kid who saved his sister from the dog attack?"

Me: "Maybe?"

Comrade: "He's a big Captain America fan."

Me: "Oh yea. Chris Evans sent him the actual shield from the movie."

Comrade: "Maybe I could have a dog attack my sister, and then resuce her, and get cool stuff."

Me: "You're not six."

Comrade: "I could fake it."

Me: "You're a little tall for a six year old?"

Comrade: "Some six year olds are tall."

Me: "And you're a little scruffy for a six year old."

Comrade: "I would shave. STOP TRYING TO CRUSH MY DREAMS. THIS IS WHY EVERYONE LEAVES YOU."

I'm lucky that I've had a job throughout the Pandemic. I go in four days a week, taking the T to meet my coworker, and then we drive to Beverly.

In March, I lost my Charlie card. The cards save about forty cents per trip. Experience had taught me that, short of going to Downtown Crossing during business hours, you can't get a Charlie Card anymore. For years, I've asked T attendants and been shot down.

Since it's just one short trip a day, and I don't currently have to shell out for the commuter rail, I've just accepted it.

Today, I bought my ticket, and In was stopped by a guy who was cleaning the windows. "You take the T every day, don't you?"

"Pretty much." I said.

"You're always reading cool graphic novels."

I smiled but he couldn't see it because I was wearing a mask.

He reached into his pocket. "Take my Charlie card. Do you know how to use it?"

"Yea. I just lost mine a few months ago."

"If you lose this one, let me know. I have dozens. They each have a couple of rides on them. And thanks for getting me to read Hellblazer."

​I had never spoken to this person before.

It's been incredibly hot in the apartment (no AC, just a bunch of fans of various sizes), and today Comrade and I were both feeling particularly lazy. Like most people, when we get hot and lazy, our vocabularies dwindle, andwe communicate through vague nouns and random hand gestures.

He was working at his desk making a Pokerarium while I was confirming that just because I really enjoy most of Jonathan Hickman's Image work doesn't mean his Avengers run wasn't a tedious drizzle of continuity porn disguised as an interesting event comic.

One of the giant fans was pointed at him and his desk. The other was pointed at me on the bed.
Comrade got up and headed over to the bed, so we could watch the last Capaldi episode of Doctor Who on my continuity ("Twice Upon A Time" doesn't exist, after it aired it was eliminated from the time line so no one would ever have to suffer through it again).

Comrade: "S'hot."

Me: "Oh yea. Hot."

He goes to lay down. I point at the fan. "Uhhhh. Hot?"

He squints at me.

"Hot." I say. Point at the fan, and then make a twirling gesture.

Comrade turns around and begins to shimmy as some form of erotic dance. After about ten seconds, he smiles and begins to lay down.

"That was great." I say. "But could you turn the fan around so we don't get too hot while we watch the show?"

He turns the fan around "I. Am. Mortified." 

"And hot." I offer.

​"Mortified."

Dude: If you could change one thing about our relationship what would it be?
​
Me: I would like you to stop making sexual grunts when you pet the cats.