It Burns! It Burns!

Last night I met up with my homegirl Arrissia. I hadn't seen her in forever, except when she showed up to my birthday party so late, bogged down in down-the-mountain traffic from Big Bear, that I was already within a half-hour of passing out. To be fair, I might not have been in my coma if I hadn't had to listen to a party guest talk at length about how she wanted to go back for a master's in poetry.
It's nice to have a girlfriend who's known you so long, you can say, "You'll never guess who I heard from!" and she says, "Your asshole mechanic!" and she's right, even though it's been probably six years since you've seen him. How did she do that?
I'd been "dating" my asshole mechanic for close to 10 months (I think we went to lunch once) when I called him up one night. "Hey!" I said. I might be able to get tickets to Junior Brown. If I do, do you want to go?"
"I would think you would invite me after you knew whether you had the tickets," he told me.
So I apologized.
Then Junior Brown's wife called me and offered me two tickets after she read a piece I'd written about the band, and I went, and I didn't take my mechanic.
So I heard from him this week. "I read what you wrote about me," he emailed. "It's not talking shit if it's true."
I think he was under the impression that my story on The Cock I wrote for the OC Weekly's "Parts is Parts" Sex Issue was about him.
It wasn't.
But then I started to regret my bitchy reply ("Oh, you," I said. "I didn't think you read."), because as I recall, he was really good at it, and I'm a fucking nun lately.
So I apologized.
"I guess I'm maybe sorry I was so rude, despite the fact that you were such a dick, because as I recall you were pretty good at it," I wrote.
"Good at being a dick or having one?" he asked.
"Maybe both," I clarified.
"Fare enough," he wrote back.
Arrissia says I can't sleep with him now if he doesn't know how to spell fair.
I tried to argue, but she still says no.