—Have you seen this before? she said pointing to the white porcelain mug on her desk—no! She wasn’t pointing at the mug, she was referring to the chirographic design enameled around the body, which read: “Woke Mom.”
—I have been a mom for fifteen years now, and guess what? It’s not any different from what you are having with Belinda at the moment. Having said that, she opens her desk drawer and hands me some paperwork and signatory sheafs of paper.
—What’s this? I ask with hasteful repugnance.
—Your wife complains about your seemingly impulsive ego.
—Self-esteem, I correct her. And besides, just who in the actual fuck does she think she is?
—My payment comes before the session. So, what would you like? She started with a sudden doleful aura about her.
The society isn’t well equipped for these lots. Therapists. They strive to be perfectionist even at pecuniary dispensations; and I oblige, only because my marriage and career depend on it.
—How do I pay?
—Hour?! I don’t have that much time. I have to be at work. I caught her face beam up at the mention of “work,” an entelechy to her, but a déjà vu to me, I pay anyways.
—Let’s talk about your work, shall we?
Her hands worked mechanically around her desk as she moved about files and dossiers, without for one second averting her lurid gaze off me. My guess, she was playing the break-a-sweat husband challenge. Something I wasn’t up for.
—I am an adviser.
—Hmmm, interesting. What sort of advice do you give? I mean your clienteles, what do they seek?
This was getting tricky, but since it was my job we were onto, I ensconced a little. Who knows? She could buy into my tenets.
—They seek redemption.
—From what, exactly? She pressed.
—From the female folks. They seek advice on how to meet up to their fullest potentials as males and I help them find their rightful place in society.
—So, you are an alpha male adviser?
—How does that make you feel?
—Feel? I have never felt more alive! Do you know how many males wake up to the reality of emasculation every day of their lives? Take for example a study which shows that men and women in the world are slightly equal, though, men hold a slighter lead in population, this isn’t enough! The male folks need stamp their presence, and I am just the person to deliver that social contract.
I saw the look of admiration in her eyes, or was it chagrin? Whatever it was, it certainly was something I had to brace up for.
—Belinda complains about you leading a group of men on Twitter who launch the hashtag alphamale dominance agenda. Don’t you think that affects your family and relationship with your wife.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. Belinda put her up to this.
—I am an adviser, not some rallier. Yeah, sometimes I launch the MenDoWithoutWomen agenda, it’s just for my Twitter metrics to be on the pole. I am that guy that shows the world that you can be married and be an alpha male—as long as you don’t place women on a pedestal.
—I know you guys have been married for two years…or three, but do you understand the concept of love, Mr. Iroh?
—Two. I correct her. And yeah, I do. I was somewhat mortified about her referring to me as “Mr. Iroh,” that I tell her to call me, Fez.
— Is that what your clienteles call you?
Now where the hell was she taking this? I needed some slack; she needed to shut up.
—I need to smoke.
—What you need, Mr. Iroh, is an accreditation letter from me stating you have gone through this process if you want to keep your marriage.
— I need to make my marriage work. There is no Fez the Alpha-male without even the slightest glimmer of a live wire relationship with my wife. If she goes, I have nothing to prove to my followers. That’s back to zero followers and zilch to show.
—Are you concerned about your family happiness, or your social fling?
—Both. I said exiting the room.
The kettle simmered and hissed pneumatically. I could sense Belinda enter the kitchen, maybe making some coffee or heating up some eggs. That isn’t my priority right now. I am logged into my Twitter account and the soak in banality.
—What’s that I hear the neighbors say about our lawn? She said coming into the room with a cup of coffee in hand.
—The usual, it’s too trimmed to the ground level. Must be some sort of infringement policy. I say without looking at her.
—I have been thinking…
Here we go again. She was always thinking.
—I was going through some sales ads and I figured I could use a job. Like a real job, Fez.
We had been through this before and we always arrived at an impasse.
—We talked about this, Bel. We don’t want you running around the suburbs in some fancy suit looking all propped up when I have got a paying job—I drink some cup of coffee and mumbled through the rim— what sort of man would I be?
—Oh, don’t make this about your job! We already have a lot going on with that job featured in it already. Get a proper job, or I will get one myself!
She was shouting now. Her voice appeared din and its proliferation spelled trouble for me, but I had to assert my ground, somehow. I didn’t want to be the bitch while she had the big gun. All of this somehow make me realize, sadly, that I didn’t want any child of mine to grow up around a virago like her. Somehow the sad bitter truth floated across my mind, we weren’t meant to be.