I really don't have a good reason. I just don't like him. I don't like anything about him. I don't like the way he walks, I don't like the look of his face, I don't like the sound of his voice. I don't like it when he breathes, especially when he comes in the house. I don't like sharing my oxygen with him. I don't like Paul.
Maybe I should feel bad for not liking Paul since I like most everyone else. My husband likes Paul. They hit it off as soon as they met a year or so ago. Paul had moved down here from somewhere up north with his wife, who I do like. But not enough to like Paul by association.
If I liked Paul, he and his wife and Larry and I would probably couples date or something, which would suit Paul and Larry fine. They call each other every day (gay). I can tell Larry's talking to Paul because of a.) the friendly tone of his voice and b.) the sound of Paul's on the other line. Paul talks loudly, so loudly that I can hear him from across the car. Yap, yap, yap. Oh, and he can't pass Larry on the road without calling to ask what he's doing. (More gay.)
Today Paul came over. I didn't invite him, and Larry didn't even tell me he was coming over until he was already up the walk because Larry knows I don't like Paul and would have started piling furniture against the door if I'd been given a warning.
"I'm going to have him look at the washer," Larry said by way of explanation. Our washer died last week and Larry thought Paul might be able to help us fix it. Paul probably claimed that he could, because he's a know-it-all, and Larry believed him. (Uber gay)
"Can't we just buy a new washer instead?" I asked. Larry rolled his eyes.
When Paul walked in with that stupid shuffling gait (which probably looks like a normal gait to anyone else) I pretended to be doing something at the computer. Paul, sensing that I was ignoring him, did what he always does. He spoke to me.
"You're getting skinny," he said. "You look good. If you ever decide to leave your old man, give me a call."
"Yeah, you'd be the first person I'd call," I said in my Most Sarcastic Tone. What I wanted to say was if he was he last man on earth and I was the last woman and the survival of the human race depended on our procreating, I'd shove a stick of dynamite in my twat and light the fuse before I'd even think about having sex with him. But I didn't get the chance. He and Larry had gone into the garage to check on the washer. I could hear Larry laughing. He thought it was funny that Paul had hit on me, since I've made it clear how much I dislike the guy.
A few minutes later Larry and Paul walked back in. My cat Jingles was on the table. Paul started petting her. "Nice cat," he said. I went over and picked her up. I didn't want Paul touching my cat. I dropped Jingles on the living room couch before opening a window to let in air to replace the oxygen Paul had been breathing.
Paul started talking to me again, so I picked up the phone and pretended to talk to someone else. I don't know if he noticed it hadn't even rung. I didn't care. A few moments later Larry and Paul were talking again and then they were gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, wiped my cat down with a disinfectant wipe and sprayed the house with Lysol to rid it of all the Paul Germs that were flying around.
I was so glad he was gone. I mean, it's not his fault that I think he's creepy but I just do. Larry likes him enough for the both of us, which is fine with me. He can talk to him on the phone or the yard all he wants but I'd prefer the guy not come in the house, hitting on me, breathing my oxygen and petting my cat. I know I shouldn't deliberately be rude, but in his case I really can't help myself. Maybe it's chemical, maybe it's extrasensory. Maybe, like I said, there's no reason at all. Regardless, I don't like Paul.
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