The One Syllable Defense
"Niles." I hear Frasier's voice summoning me back to consciousness. "Niles," he repeats this a little more sternly and accompanies it with a shake of my shoulders. "Wake up."
I slowly open my eyes and glance up at my comfort zone. Absent are the cobwebs, dust bunnies and "nest" that would have greeted me if I had chosen to stay under Frasier's instead.
"I thought I'd find you under there," Frasier comments and questions. "Rough night?"
I crawl out from under the piano and shake loose my limbs that have stiffened up on me overnight.
"What was your first clue?"
"That would be the dark circles under your eyes."
I faintly smile and mouth the words "thanks" and walk over to the wet bar. "Sherry, Frasier?"
"Niles, it is only 8:30 in the morning isn't it a bit early for a drink?"
I shrug for lack of a better answer and just pour myself a glass and uncharacteristically chug it all down in one gulp and start to pour myself another.
"Do you want to talk about what happened between you and Daphne?"
"No." I refrain, letting my head and shoulders sag.
Frasier comes over and stands behind me.
"Niles," Frasier places his hands on my shoulders and gives them a slight squeeze. "You, more than anyone, should know how unwise and unhealthy it is for one to repress his emotions and keep them bottled up inside…"
"No!" I adamantly refuse again and slam down my glass, shattering it in the process.
"So," Frasier quips. "That's all you're going to say?"
I point to the last line of the Haiku she's written and for some reason that even I can't even phantom, she has asked for my opinion on it, and…
"Only one, small itsy-bitsy problem darl-…"
Her icy glare cuts me off and is used to deliver her message, or messages. The points of which are both loud and clear and serve their purpose. One, it's to remind me of her abhorrence for pet names, and secondly and more importantly, it's an admonition of me for my harsh words.
"It has one extra syllable too many," I state in my defense and duck as she hurls (what people didn't know about her was that her temper gave her, luckily only brief, unbelievable strength) a vase that her Aunt Patrice gave to us as a wedding present at my head.
The vase narrowly misses my head and crashes up against the fireplace hearth in a thousand little pieces, a tiny piece of which flies and cuts me right above the left eye.
I feel woozy and pull out my handkerchief and dab at the blood and try not to faint.
"Gwhich..." I attempt G-speak, hoping that it might lessen her (well-deserved) anger directed at me. I fail miserably and only accomplish in growing her ire even more.
"Maris." I try again. "I don't know what came over me. I was just being foolish. Please accept my apologies for pointing out the extra syllable and for my thoughtlessness."
To be continued…