Chafing and Bloating

He hadn't actually intended to reveal so much to strangers.  He thought he was speaking to a confident.  Someone to whom one could share his secrets.

She had, after all, seen him naked, sick, happy and sad.  She had nursed him back to health and she had dyed his hair twice.  Green for St. Patty's day, and orange to bring the Giants good luck.  It had worked too, for the Giants won the world series that year.

But this illusion of personal propriety.  This status of trusted confident was vanquished.  If only he hadn't shared his problem of chafing.

"You're what?"  She asked rather loudly he thought.  They were after all, walking down 18th Street towards Mission.  Because the locals weren't able to tolerate anything above 70 degrees,the streets were full of hot sweaty families and their thirsty dogs.

"I'm chafing."  He said.  A bit more quietly, leaning in like she'd taught him.  He was sending her the secret signal for intimacy as previously instructed.  It was their code for me talking to you wanting love, or so he thought.

"Your chafing!"  She said even louder as everyone on the sidewalk looked at him.  When she had everyone's attention she delivered the coup d'etat.  "Are you feeling bloated too honey?"  She smirked and laughed.

But she was laughing at him not with him and he knew then and there, on 18th Street heading towards Mission, that their relationship would end.  He included new retirement plans to his speculation about the benefits of baby powder products.