I’m sorry I never returned after the incident, but I don’t think you wanted me back anyway. You’ve never really liked me. But I still want to explain to you what happened that day.
I’ve never been good at giving presents to the people closest to me. Not only do I have friends who are great at giving presents, making me look like an asshole—they even deeply enjoy it. It’s a skill I just don’t possess, and I’ve already accepted this.
I’m sure you know this by now, but your son is a very nervous kid and his palms sweat constantly. It bothered me, but I never let him know that. I almost didn’t follow through with my plan because I thought it might induce a minor breakdown. I don’t know what you did to him as a child, but I think it’s too late to change anything now.
For his birthday, the first year we were together, I baked him chocolate chip muffins, and mailed them to him because I thought it would be a nice surprise and everyone loves to receive mail. Instead, the muffins ended up lost in the mail, and by the time they arrived at your house three weeks later, were broken and stale. The following year I was determined to redeem myself. Desperate for advice, I asked one of my superior-present-bestowing friends, Amanda, what I should do.
A few days later, I borrowed her old Halloween costume and dressed up as a flight attendant. The costume was a tight, navy blue dress with golden stripes across the shoulders and bottom of the sleeves. Golden buttons ran down the middle to match the stripes and a patch read, “Mile High Captain.”
I left my house and wore it under regular clothing so my parents wouldn’t see what a slut I was. I drove over to your house to see Ben, and you let me in. It was only about seven thirty, but you already looked tired and ready for bed, and wore your usual silk pajamas, with the small cats rolling around in yarn on the sleeves. I slipped into Ben’s room and told him to get ready for a big surprise. Then I took off my jeans and T-shirt and transformed myself into a sexy-porn-flight-attendant goddess. I told him where he could find the nearest exits. His palms began to sweat. He said I was the weirdest girl he had ever met, and begged me to stop. I told him to buckle up, because it would be a bumpy ride. He said he didn’t feel well, and maybe I should come back another time, but I refused. I would not leave until he had sex with me in my flight attendant costume so that I could feel I had given him a sufficient birthday present. I threw the navy blue cap that matched the costume, but was too small for my head, onto the floor, then undid the first golden button. Eventually, he became aroused by my ability to stay in character and extensive knowledge of aviation. I knew this because he slipped off my costume and tried to stick his dick into my ass, but I did not let him. Instead, I grew angry. Was my costume not enough?
Once I guided his cock away from my asshole, he suddenly threw up on that powder blue carpet you always insist on vacuuming whenever I come over. I froze at first, shocked, and then hurried back into my flight attendant costume to run outside and find paper towels. When I opened the door, there you were, Linda, standing in the hallway folding laundry. We stared at each other, you in silk pajamas with cats playing innocently in yarn, me in a half open flight attendant costume in the middle of January. Standing there with you, I suddenly thought about the fake fruit you displayed in your kitchen and the first time I came over to meet you and your husband and tried to eat one.
“Ben is sick,” I muttered quietly, as if our shared love for your son would make us forget what I was wearing.
“I’ll get him some water,” you said, not taking your eyes off the lace bra popping out of my top. “But maybe you better leave.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I replied slowly, and walked away in driven strides, still deeply committed to my birthday present, without motioning to fix a single button. Perhaps your son’s next girlfriend will be more promising.