Robo Cop-Out

Irene was looking for RoboCop when we met.

"Excuse me, but do you have any RoboCop books?", she asked as she flipped through the boxes of comic books on the table separating us. I should have told her no, I was sold out - the actor who played RoboCop, which was currently in the theaters, was a guest at the Big Comic Convention I was working- but I was immediately attracted to Irene and her fishnet-based Victorian Gothic fashion sense. I wanted to keep her at my table as long as possible. To do that, I'd tell her anything, including the truth.

"Well, I don't have any 'Robo' books down here, but I have some Robocop stashed in my room upstairs."

Her black-lined lips twitched. Was she repressing a smile or a snarl?

"That is flat-out the worst pick-up line that I have ever heard."

Her stare was an icy dagger of laughter.
Laughter?

Ha, she was teasing me! I like this. Keep going...

"But, but...I do have a few. I figured I'd hold some back in case the prices went up during the autograph sessions, but if you want I'll run upstairs and bring one down for you during my next break. No extra charge, of course."

Oh shit. I've just revealed book-dealer secrets to an attractive stranger after ten seconds of conversation. Mata Hari would have had no problems with me.

Irene looked a bit disappointed. When exactly, she wanted to know, was my next break and how much was a copy of RoboCop: The Comics Adaptation going to cost her?

"Now, and your eternal soul, to answer your respective questions."

"Excellent!"

And it was. It turned out that Irene was a student at the art school back home- we were neighbors, in fact. We both agreed that this was a good thing and that we would pick up where we left off after returning to our mutual hometown. Where we left off was the floor, the desk, the tub....well, you get the idea.

I wasn't paying much attention to conversational clues at this point. I overlooked a critical warning sign when Irene referred to my cat as an "animal companion" and I, thinking she was being sarcastic, replied that I preferred the term "feline-American".

I was kidding. She wasn't, and we had our first argument, but we were at the stage in our fledgling relationship where such things didn't seem to matter. I didn't have any problem adapting to her excellent vegan cooking and she 'overlooked' my leather shoes...it was fine for a few weeks.

Until our Big Romantic Date.

I had recently sold some Silver Age Spider-Man comics to a local restaurateur who was also a Spidey addict, and part of our negotiations included a candlelight dinner for two at his restaurant. After making sure that the kitchen could prepare a proper vegan meal, I asked Irene if she wanted to dine out, all formal-like.

Hell yeah, she said, as long as it's vegan.

So we went. It felt great, being greeted at the door and escorted to our table by the owner, being told that we were "V.I.P.s" and to feel free to order anything we wished. We were a young, poor and strange-looking couple; neither one of us was accustomed to being treated so graciously by a 'straight' establishment. It felt good.
I was doing alright by Irene, I thought.

But during our meal, she kept staring at a woman a few tables over to my left. I should have said something, asked what was up...something...but I didn't. I was too busy enjoying the moment to notice how angry Irene was getting.
I wish I had, because before we ordered desert Irene finally stood up and approached the woman whom she had been glaring at all evening.

"Ahem. I can't help but notice that you are very proud of your fur coat. Well, I hope you are proud of all the animals who suffered and died in cages so you could prance around in their skins..."

"Well, I never...", the other, older woman stood up, " what gives you the right to talk to me..."

The woman's husband, older and much larger than me, also stood up. He didn't say anything, but his look was one of contempt as the two women started yelling at each other in the nearly full dining room. I tried to avoid his eyes.

"You murderous, evil bitch!"

"Crazy punk rock whore!"

"I'll fucking kill you..."

The entire dining room stopped moving, went silent and watched the argument escalate.

Clink, said a fork.

My friend, the owner, rushed over and stage-whispered to me: "Leave. Now."

"Irene! Irene!", I interjected, "we need to leave. Now. My friend is insisting that we go."

"Cunt!"

"Slut!"

On the walk back to her apartment I couldn't think of anything to say, so I sulked instead. I guessed, correctly, that this incident had cost me one of my best comics customers. I also felt the lurking specter of The End of my time with Irene.

When we got home, she started giving me crap about my leather shoes, my belt, the beef I had "hidden" in my freezer...I am a bit ashamed to admit that I wasn't the slightest bit prepared for this attack and I crumpled. I gathered up the things I had at her place and I went home. I spent the night alone with my beef.

A few days later, a mutual friend approached me. She said Irene had been "stressed" and needed to go back to her family for a rest period. She informed me that Irene wanted me to have something, but was embarrassed to give it to me herself, so she used our friend as proxy.

She handed me a comic book inside a plastic bag.

RoboCop.