I promised you that the minute you needed to jet, I’d meet you outside in Coraline’s truck and we’d bolt down to Mexico — after all, I can speak Italian with a Spanish accent, so we would be just fine. The first time I said this, you laughed and replied, “God, you’re great.”
We were about two months into sleeping with each other at that point, five months into just knowing each other.
The second time I reminded you I was willing to commit grand theft auto — though I’m not sure it’s truly GTA when it’s my own divorced sister-in-law’s truck I’m stealing, especially when she swindled my brother out of seeing the kids for 50 weeks out of the year — you kissed me on the forehead with a smile and said “But they don’t pay that much in Mexico.”
Canada, then, I said. They have Mounties and great healthcare. Or cheap pills, at least.
“And mountains!” you added. “I like mountains.”
So it was settled, that we’d drive up to Canada in my ex-sister-in-law’s truck after I had swung by to pick up your dog and camping gear on my way to collect you from what I was sure would be a very bloody murder scene. You could hide in the back alley while the cops assessed the body count. Just one, as planned. Maybe more if there were annoying witnesses. Be sure to bash his head in with a block of ice so it would melt and none of your fingerprints would be found.
“Feels….cold,” you said when I recommended this.
“Yeah, but the son-of-a-bitch deserves it.”
“No, the ice,” you said. “I lose feeling in my fingers really quickly when the temperature drops, so I’m not sure how long I can hold an ice block.”
“And you want to go to Canada?”
So now we’re back to Mexico as our escape destination, and I’m still waiting for the call telling me to hotwire that bitch Coraline’s truck, swing by to get Rufus the mutt and some camping gear, pick up you and your numb fingers, and high tail it to a beach south of the border. Just so happens I look great in a bikini.
Oh, you think I’m joking? Check out these abs. And this ass. I’m fucking Raquel Welch. Bette Page. Halle Berry walking up on the beach in Die Another Day.
Oh, you mean about driving to Mexico. Baby, just hand me the map and you can doze shotgun the whole way down.