“Kate!”

And we need beer.

Sure, she’s in the office working, but the Yankees are on. And I’m a New York boy—born and raised. Which means there are only two teams I like: the Yankees and whoever’s playing the Boston Red Sox.

“KAAATE!”

She appears at the entrance to the room, arms folded, hip cocked. She’s wearing a sundress—short with a sexy floral pattern and buttons down the front for easy removal. I worship the creator of the sundress.

Her voice is annoyed. “What is it, Drew?”

I toss her a smile. “Hey, babe…could you grab us a few beers from the fridge?”

Animals are non-verbal. A girl dog can’t tell a boy dog, Screw me now; I want to have your puppies. So instead she sticks her ass in the air. Now, if the boy dog happens to read her signals wrong? If he jumps on her ass before it’s raised?

He might just get his balls bitten off.

Women are a lot like female canines—or bitches, if you want the correct terminology—and God help the man who misreads them.

We’ll get back to that later.

As for now, when Kate raises one eyebrow at me, I know she’s looking for an explanation. I gesture towards the television. “Jeter’s about to beat the all-time hitting record.”

She sighs. Pacified. “Okay.” Then she heads off to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she comes back with her arms full of beer bottles. She hands one to Matthew.

“Thanks, Kate.”

And one to Steven. “Thank you.”

And one to me. I take a sip. And flinch. “Ah, this is piss warm.” I hand it back to her.

“I just took it out of the refrigerator.”

With my eyes still on the game, I flick my wrist, shooing her back to the kitchen. “You have to take them from the back of the fridge. That’s where the cold ones are…Come on, A-rod! Get your head out of your ass and in the game!”

And we should pause here a moment.

Remember those dogs I was talking about? The cues? While I was watching TV, I missed a few. Take a look:

Steven is smiling, almost laughing. After all the punishment he’s received from my sister over the years, he’s developed quite the sadistic streak when it comes to other people getting their asses handed to them.

Then there’s Matthew. God only knows what kind of sick and depraved penalties Delores has inflicted on that poor bastard, because he just looks scared.

Kate, on the other hand, is staring at my hand like it’s a cockroach. That she wants to squash. And then she gets an idea—a wonderful, awful idea. If you look hard enough, you can see the light bulb go on above her head. She smiles and leaves the room.

I missed all this the first time.

A few minutes later, Kate breezes back in carrying an ice bucket filled with beer. Nope, not beer bottles. Just beer. She stands next to the couch, and I—eyes still on the game—hold out my hand for my drink. And she proceeds to take her bucket and dump it over my f**king head.

Splash.

I jump up, dripping and choking. “Jesus Christ!”

She asks me sweetly, “Is that cold enough for you, honey?”

I wipe my face with my hand and glare at her. “Are you crazy!”

She glares right back. “No—and I’m not a waitress either! Though I would hope you’d show a little more courtesy to them.”

Matthew stands up. “I’m going to head down to McCarthy’s Bar and watch the game from there.”

Steven gets his jacket. “I’ll come with you.”

I wring out the bottom of my shirt. “Hold the cab for me, guys. I’ll be right down.”

Matthew laughs. And pats me on the back. “Sure you will, buddy. Bye, Kate.”

“Later, Kate.”

She doesn’t answer them. She’s too busy trying to kill me with her eyes.

And with that, Matthew and Steven make their escape.

While Kate and I glower at each other.

Ding-ding.

Yep—that’s the bell. Round one just got started.

***

I begin calmly. When verbally sparring with an adversary, it’s always better to stay levelheaded. Choose your words carefully. Be smart.

And lethal.

“What is this about?”

Apparently, Kate does not share my philosophy.

“You tell me, Drew! Tell me why the hell Matthew and Steven can say please and thank you and all I get from you is a…” She flicks her hand dismissively, mimicking my earlier action.

And once again, I stay composed. Still dripping—but composed.

“So you’re telling me you wasted good beer and ruined my Saturday afternoon because I forgot my manners?”

“Why couldn’t you just say it?”

“Why couldn’t you just say, ‘Hey, Drew, a thank you would be nice’? Was it necessary to be such a god damn drama queen about it?”

She folds her arms and scoffs, “I am not a drama queen.”

I hold up my fingers. “Two words, Kate: Chanel suit.”

You remember, don’t you? The one I bought her from Saks, after our first screw-fest?

Her eyes narrow. “What about it?”

My eyebrows rise. “What about it? You set it on fire.”

Yep—she and Delores made like homeless people and incinerated the freaking thing in the dumpster outside Kate’s old building.

She shrugs. “So? You were nothing to me, and I wanted to make sure everything you’d ever given me was nothing too.”