Consigned

Once, in the wooing season, a wise and beautiful girl fell in love with a handsome and foolish young man.

She pursued him; he pursued games. She asked if he would cavort with her and also sort with her, but all he wanted was sport, port, and snort, with toys, noise, and other fun boys.

“Let’s go out,” she said, “for coffee and talk.”

“Talk, squawk, ” he said. “Come gaming with me!”

“And there you have it,” she said to herself. “What does one do with silly boys who don’t know how to talk, feel, reel or deal, with life and wife and every emotion twice and thrice — or not.”

And then, with a pained heart, she consigned him to disobedience.

“What the hell is that?” He asked her. “What did you ever give to me that you could make rules about or take anything away from me? Who do you think you are, my mother?”

“I’m your brother!” she said.

“Your weird,” he said, “for a pretty girl.”

“I’ve given you everything,” she replied, “but you have given me nothing that you should expect anything in return.”

He quit calling her.

“Consigned,” she said.

“An odd girl,” he told his friends.

Then, over the next year, he got seriously bossed, crossed, lost and tossed. He called her.

“What have you got for me?” She asked over the phone.

“I’ve got nothin’,” he said and there was a long silence.

“Come see me,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

“What can come from nothing?” He asked.

“Actually,” she said, “Something, something can come of nothing.”

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