Buffalo, NY—The budding six- week relationship between John Molten (31) and Jenifer Del Fuego (29) came to an abrupt end at the Labatt Brew House this past weekend. Del Fuego was caught off guard when she met Molten for happy hour and he was sipping a plain old Blue Light rather than a seasonal designer beer. When she asked why he wasn’t drinking the Cranberry Peach Sour 001, they came here to try, Molten hung his head for a moment. Then, while slowly tracking up to Del Fuego’s pretty eyes said, “ I can’t take this. Listen, babe, I’m not drinking any goddamn Cranberry Peach Beer anymore.” Grabbing the list of beer offerings at the Brew House, sitting on the bar he went on in an annoyed voice, his eyes darting between the list and Del Fuego’s face, “I’m not drinking any Raspberry Sorbet beer or a Baltic fucking Porter or a goddamn Floral Shirt Friday, whatever the fuck that is. I’m drinking a Blue fucking Light like I did in the park, when I was a kid—only we drank regular Blue cause we didn’t care about the calories back then.”
Taken aback by his language and tone, Del Fuego in a measured voice asked, “Where’s this coming from?”
Shaking his head, Molten explained he had been lying to her almost from the moment they met at a mutual friend’s barbeque at the end of the summer. “That next day after the barbeque, when we met for coffee, you were so happy when the cafe had the pumpkin spice creamer out that I lied to you about liking it too. But, the reality is, I hate pumpkin spice and all of this designer crap bullshit—all of it.”
Del Fuego asked why he felt the need to lie and he explained he was just trying to be cool and easy with her and the pumpkin spice lie was such a nothing thing. But because she slept with him that first night after drinking those awful Negritos and did that crazy thing with her toes . . . “All bets were off.”
Visibly upset, Del Fuego asked what else he’s lied about and looking away in strained voice Molten said, “Everything.” He paused for a moment and said, “My dad told me as a kid, while we waited in line at Tim Horton’s listening to some ya-hoo order a medium half-caf with a splash of skim milk and a quarter packet of Splenda, that the more complicated your coffee order is, the bigger asshole you are.”
Angry now, Del Fuego asked, “Oh, so I’m an asshole because I like pumpkin spice?”
“If it were only that,” Molten responded.
Seething now, Del Fugeo stood up as Molten rattled off some of the trendy bullshit she wanted him to engage in from skinny jeans to growing out his beard to wearing a skull caps on a summery days. Gaining steam now as she walked away in an awkward too loud voice, he said, “Remember that time at 716, when you ordered the garlic brussel sprouts appetizer?—well, I hated them too. Who orders fucking brussel sprouts as an appetizer . . . in Buffalo. I want goddamn real apps like potato skins, perogies and mozzarella sticks not fucking brussel sprouts.”
After she walked out the door Molten ordered another Blue Light. Serving the beer the bartender rhetorically said, “Well, aren’t you boyfriend of the year!”
Molten, looking straight ahead, half-nodded in agreement.
