Dipshit Called

Everything was going great until Dipshit called, apparently just 20 minutes before we met the Girl From Moscow at the bar. She told us about it. She laughed it off. No biggie. It was forgotten. We drank. We talked. We went back to the house, the Girl From Moscow, my wife, and me. Dipshit called. We talked some more. Dipshit called. Making progress, slow but steady. Dipshit called. Semi-disrobed. Dipshit called. Almost there. Dipshit called. Dipshit called. Dipshit called. It was the sound of belligerent plot-loss coming through a cell phone, without pride, without dignity. She left to go see him. She left to forgive him, and take him back. At 1:30am. Goddamnit, I hate being leverage. Now I also hate Dipshit, though he’s really not a bad guy at all.