"Negroni Season": The Fan Fiction

by Nicole Cliffe and Mallory Ortberg

It has been three years and three months since the publication of “Negroni Season,” one of four short anonymously published tales in the series “The Worst Boyfriend In The World.” For those just tuning in, it was about this guy, and he was the worst boyfriend in the world. Fortunately for her but unfortunately for us, our heroine moved on with her life. But there’s always one thing to fill the silence that follows any creative endeavor that ended too soon: fan fiction.

“But it’s only thirteen-thousand dollars,” he said, looking up at me from the sofa. “Thirteen-thousand dollars and we can have our own coconut oil factory.”

“I thought it was a farm?”

“Factory, farm, whatever. It’s — you can harvest and process and package the coconut oil all on the same property — the name isn’t the point. The point is it’s only thirteen-thousand dollars to give me a chance to follow my dream.”

“I thought your dream was to create an app that lets you know if any of your Twitter friends have ping-pong tables.”

“A person can have more than one dream.”

*

We had been together seven years before he finally told me when his birthday was.

*

“I need to be with someone who really inspires me, you know?”

“I just don’t think that’s a good enough reason for us to have a three-way with Marisha Pessl.”

“When did you become so hard? I don’t remember when you became such a hard person.”

*

“She’s my mother,” I said, unclear on whether or not he was joking. Sometimes it was hard to tell with him. He shrugged.

“I just don’t see why you can’t take a cab to the hospital. If I drive you there, then I have to drive you back, and it’s Purim. You can’t ask me not to drink on Purim.”

“Today isn’t Purim.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re missing the point.”

*

The day he started referring to eleven a.m. as “Whiskey Sour Power Hour” was the same day my cat went missing. “I don’t remember you having a cat,” he insisted, “and I don’t mean to be rude, but your face looks really weird when you cry.”

*

“Give us your wallet,” the mugger said.

When no response came, he rubbed the blade along my throat, causing a thin line of red to appear.

“I made that wallet out of duct tape, I’m pretty into it.”

“Okay, just hand me the money, then. I’ll kill her, I swear.” I could feel his hand waver.

“This is happening really quickly. I need a minute to clear my head.”

Ten minutes later, as the mugger and I stood in the alley, we realized he wasn’t coming back.

“Shit,” he said. “I mean, I’m not usually in the business of telling people how to live their lives, but you could do better.”

*

“Actually,” he said, “in fairness, the bike share program was kind of my idea.”

“I don’t ever remember hearing you talk about it,” I said.

“Well, I did. I even drew it out on a napkin.” He started rummaging through the piles of old magazines and Gatorade bottles and socks littering his desks. “I kept the napkin somewhere. I still have it.” His head disappeared underneath a stack of notebooks. “Fuck,” he said, somewhat muffled.

“I don’t think they’ll take a napkin as evidence,” I said.

“Fuck.”

*

“It’s Singapore Spring,” he said patiently, by way of explanation, then resumed vomiting.

*

I stood over the coffin and brushed his hair back from his face.

“Now it is always Negroni Season,” I said, and walked out of the church and into the sun.

Nicole Cliffe and Mallory Ortberg are proprietors of The Toast. Drunk dude photo by John Goodridge.